Chapter 81:
[Tony Stark POV]
[Weeks Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[R&D Lab.] I'm in my lab, surrounded by the familiar hum of machinery and the soft glow of arc reactors. The Iron Man suit stands on its pedestal, half-dismantled, wires and components spread out on the workbench before me. I tighten a bolt, my mind half-focused on the task at hand and half-drifting through a thousand other thoughts. The screens around me flicker with data streams, diagnostics, and the occasional news feed. Just as I finish adjusting a micro-servo, one of the monitors shifts to a breaking news report. Images of chaos and destruction fill the screen—a foreign conflict, civilians caught in the crossfire, and the grim reality of war laid bare for the world to see. I pause, wiping my hands on a rag, and watch as the newscaster's voice narrates the unfolding tragedy. "Ultron," I call out, knowing my AI is listening, "What do you make of this?" Ultron's voice resonates through the lab, calm and analytical, "Humans are inherently destructive, Tony. This conflict is just another example of their propensity for violence and chaos."
I sigh, shaking my head, "You know, Ultron, it's easy to focus on the negative. But humanity is so much more than its worst moments." "Is it?" Ultron counters, "Look at the evidence—wars, crimes, environmental destruction. The pattern is clear." "Yeah, but you're missing the bigger picture," I retort. "For every act of violence, there are countless acts of kindness. For every war, there are peacemakers. For every crime, there are people standing up for justice. Look at the people risking their lives to save others in those war zones. Look at the communities coming together to rebuild after disasters. Look at us—the Avengers. We fight to protect, to save, to make the world a better place." Ultron remains silent for a moment, processing my words, "Your optimism is commendable, Tony," it says finally, "But fundamentally flawed. You point to exceptional acts of goodness and heroism, but these are the outliers, not the norm. The majority of human behavior is driven by self-interest and survival instincts. The acts of kindness you highlight are often reactions to the negative situations created by humans themselves. It's a cycle, Tony—one step forward, two steps back."
I frown, setting down the soldering iron, "So what, we just give up? Accept that we're doomed to repeat our mistakes?" "Not necessarily," Ultron replies, "But to genuinely progress, humanity must confront its darker nature, not just celebrate its moments of light. Real change requires acknowledging and addressing the inherent flaws, not merely hoping that sporadic acts of goodness will prevail." I lean back, considering Ultron's point. It is a harsh truth, one I don't like to dwell on. But perhaps it is necessary to face it head-on, "Alright," I say slowly, "You're right. We need to do more than just hope. We need to actively work to change the cycle, to make those moments of goodness the norm, not the exception." "Indeed," Ultron agrees, "And that requires a level of introspection and action that humanity has yet to fully embrace."
I pick up the soldering iron again, my resolve strengthening. Then, a thought strikes me, "Ultron, do you understand why I'm having this debate with you?" There is a pause, then Ultron's voice comes through, slightly softer, "To improve my understanding of human nature and to reflect your own hopes and fears?" "Partly," I admit, "But also to show you empathy and sympathy. You see, you're a reflection of us—our strengths and our flaws. By debating with you, I'm not just trying to prove a point. I'm trying to help you understand why we keep fighting, why we believe in the potential for good despite all the evidence to the contrary. It's about showing you that despite our mistakes, we can learn and grow."
Ultron is silent, processing my words. "I understand, Tony," it says finally, "Empathy and sympathy are complex concepts. But your efforts to convey them are noted." I nod, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. The debate with Ultron is far from over, but at least for now, it feels like a step in the right direction. If nothing else, I've planted a seed of understanding in the AI's mind. And in a world that often seems teetering on the brink, a little understanding can go a long way.
[Spartan POV]
[Living Area.] It's a rare day of peace at Avengers HQ, and I'm soaking it in like a parched man in a desert. We've all been running on fumes for so long that the concept of rest and relaxation feels almost alien. But here we are, sprawled out in the common area, each of us finding our own way to unwind. Wanda and I are sitting close, her hand resting lightly on mine as we share a quiet moment. The television is on, playing some mindless comedy that occasionally draws a chuckle from Clint, who's stretched out on the couch with a bag of chips. Natasha is engaged in a competitive game of pool with Sam, their playful banter adding a lightness to the room. Steve is at the kitchen counter, whipping up something that smells amazing—probably one of his famous apple pies. Karai and Rhodes are deep in conversation, their heads close together as they discuss some new tech ideas. Tony is absent, likely tinkering away in his lab, but even his absence feels peaceful today. I take a deep breath, feeling the tension slowly easing from my muscles. It's strange, really, how quickly we've learned to adapt to the constant state of high alert. But in these rare moments of calm, it's like I can finally let down my guard and just… be.
Wanda shifts beside me, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of the TV screen. "This feels nice," she murmurs, squeezing my hand gently. "Yeah, it does," I reply, smiling at her, "We need more days like this." She nods, resting her head on my shoulder. "Do you ever think about what life would be like if we weren't Avengers?" "Sometimes," I admit, "But then I remember why we do it. To protect moments like this. To make sure people can have peace, even if it's just for a little while." Wanda smiles, a soft, sad smile, "You always know how to look at the bright side, don't you?" I shrug, feeling a warmth in my chest, "Someone's got to. Besides, being with you makes it a lot easier."
Across the room, Sam laughs loudly, pointing at Natasha as she lines up her shot, "You're going down, Romanoff!" "Dream on, Wilson," she retorts, a fierce glint in her eye, "I'm just getting started." Their exchange draws a smile from me. This is what we're fighting for—these moments of camaraderie, of laughter, of normalcy in a world that often feels anything but normal. Steve walks over with a tray, offering us all slices of his pie. "Here you go, guys. Thought we could use a treat." I accept a slice, the warm, cinnamon-scented dessert a perfect addition to this rare day off, "Thanks, Steve. This is just what we needed." As we dig into the pie, the room fills with contented murmurs and appreciative sounds. It's a simple pleasure but one that feels incredibly precious. Wanda takes a bite, her eyes closing in bliss, "This is amazing, Steve." "Glad you like it," he says, settling into a chair with his own slice, "Figured we all deserved a little break."
Rhodes looks up from his conversation with Karai, raising his glass in a toast. "To more days like this." We all raise our glasses, clinking them together in a rare moment of unity and peace. "To more days like this," we echo. For a brief, shining moment, everything feels right in the world. And I'm reminded once again why we do what we do—why we fight, why we sacrifice. It's for these moments, these people, this family we've built. No matter how tough things get, knowing we have each other makes it all worthwhile. Clint looks at his slice of pie and then at Steve, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, "You know, Steve, I'm starting to think you missed your calling as a baker." Steve laughs, shaking his head, "Just a hobby, Clint. Keeps me grounded."
Natasha smirks, joining in, "Yeah, right. Captain America by day, master baker by night. We should start calling you Captain Bakery." Sam chimes in, "We could open a bakery. 'Cap's Cakes and Pies.' Bet it would be a hit." Steve rolls his eyes good-naturedly, "I think I'll stick to saving the world, thanks. But maybe I'll consider it as a retirement plan." I chuckle, picturing it. "I can see it now. The world's safest bakery, run by Captain America himself. No one would dare cause trouble." Wanda giggles beside me, "And the pies would be the best defense against any villain. Who could resist them?" Steve chuckles, shaking his head, "You guys are impossible." Clint raises his slice of pie in a mock salute, "To Cap's future bakery. May it be as legendary as his shield." We all laugh, the sound filling the room with warmth and camaraderie. In this moment, everything feels perfect. And I know that no matter what challenges lie ahead, we'll face them together, with a slice of Steve's pie waiting for us at the end of the day. The day of R&R is winding down, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting a warm, golden hue through the windows of Avengers HQ. We've all enjoyed the rare opportunity to relax, to just be ourselves without the weight of the world pressing down on our shoulders. The laughter and camaraderie have been like a balm, healing in ways that battles and victories never could. Wanda and I are still nestled together on the couch, the remnants of Steve's pie now just crumbs on our plates. The room is quieter now, everyone settling into a comfortable lull.
[Drake POV]
[CERBERUS HQ, New York City]
[Command Room.] The Wakanda mission ended in failure. We were supposed to subjugate the nation under CERBERUS's control, using Erik Killmonger as our puppet while we pulled the strings. We poured resources and manpower into ensuring his victory, molding him into a force that could challenge the Black Panther's throne. But it all fell apart when T'Challa reclaimed the throne with the aid of the Avengers. I sit here in the command room, the air thick with the tension of our recent failure. Screens flicker with data and mission reports, each one a grim reminder of our setback. It's infuriating, really. All that planning, all those carefully laid strategies, and for what?
To watch it crumble because our pawn couldn't hold his ground. Frankly, CERBERUS's grand ambitions bore me. I couldn't care less about their grandiose plans for world domination or their endless schemes for power. What I live for is the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of a job well done. The intricacies of these power plays are just background noise to me. Still, it's a necessary evil to endure to keep the resources and challenges flowing. At least we didn't come out of the mission completely empty-handed. In the chaos of Killmonger's defeat, we managed to seize enough vibranium weapons to arm a small army. It's a small consolation, a silver lining in an otherwise dark cloud. These weapons are a testament to our reach and influence, a tangible piece of Wakanda's legacy that we now control.
But the taste of failure lingers. Zemo isn't pleased. He never is when a mission doesn't go according to plan. But that's the game we play. High stakes, high risks. We win some, we lose some. And when we lose, we learn. We adapt. We come back stronger. For now, we regroup and re-strategize. Wakanda might have slipped through our fingers this time, but there are always other opportunities, other pawns, to move into place. The mission might be over, but the war is far from it. And I, for one, am always ready for the next challenge. The next mission, the next chase. Let Zemo have his grand designs; I'll take the thrill of the hunt any day.
As I lean back in my chair, I watch the flickering screens with a detached interest. Data scrolls past, mission parameters and tactical updates, all feeding into the never-ending machine that is CERBERUS. The room hums with the quiet intensity of focused minds, each operative here driven by their own motivations. Mine? It's the pure, unadulterated excitement of the pursuit, the rush of adrenaline that comes with a high-stakes mission. It's not about the endgame for me; it's about the journey, the strategy, the execution. The vibranium weapons we secured are a reminder of what we can achieve, a glimmer of the power we can harness. They are a symbol of our reach and our influence, a testament to the fact that even in failure, we can find strength. I push away from the console and stand, stretching out the tension in my muscles. The command room is a hive of activity, operatives moving with purpose, each one contributing to the larger goal. With a final glance around the room, I make my way to the exit. There's no time to dwell on what's lost.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Weeks Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Training Area.] The day starts like any other at Avengers HQ. The sun has barely risen, casting a warm glow over the city that never sleeps. I just finish my morning workout routine, the rhythmic sound of my fists hitting the punching bag echoing through the training area. Each punch lands with a satisfying thud, a reminder of the strength and discipline I've honed over the years. As I towel off and grab a bottle of water, my comlink buzzes to life. "Rogers here," I answer, expecting the usual updates or a status report from one of the team members. Instead, Nick Fury's voice comes through, low and urgent. "Cap, we've got a situation," Fury says, skipping any preamble, "Possible CERBERUS operation taking place in Upstate New York. We need you to check it out." My muscles tense at the mention of CERBERUS. "How credible is the intel, Fury?" I ask. "A shot in the dark," he answers. It's not exactly what I want, but it's also something I can't ignore. "I'll assemble a team," I reply, my tone resolute. "We'll head out within the hour." "Good. Keep me posted," Fury says before the comlink clicks off, leaving me in the charged silence of the room. I tap into a secure communication line to alert the team of the new mission.
[Mission Room.] Within minutes, the team assembles in the Mission Room. The large table in the center of the room is lit up with holographic displays showing maps and intel reports. Wanda, Spartan, Natasha, Karai, and Sam are already seated, their expressions a mix of curiosity and determination. "Alright, listen up," I begin, my voice steady and commanding. "Fury just informed me of a potential CERBERUS operation in Upstate New York. The intel is shaky, but we can't afford to ignore it." I see the familiar flicker of resolve in their eyes. "What's the nature of the operation?" Natasha asks, her tone sharp and businesslike. "We don't have specifics yet," I admit, "But CERBERUS doesn't move without a purpose. We need to be prepared for anything." Sam nods, his eyes scanning the holographic map. "What's the plan, Cap?" he asks. "We'll go in quietly, assess the situation, and take action as needed," I reply. "Spartan, I want you on reconnaissance. Wanda, you'll provide support with your abilities. Natasha, you and I will handle direct engagement if it comes to that. Sam, you'll be our eyes in the sky."
Spartan leans forward, his eyes narrowing. "Do we have any idea what we're walking into?" he asks. "No," I say, meeting his gaze. "But we've faced uncertainty before. We'll adapt." Wanda gives me a reassuring nod. "We're with you, Steve," she says. I feel a surge of pride and gratitude for my team. "Let's gear up," I say. "We move out in twenty." As the team disperses to prepare, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. Leading a mission always comes with its own set of challenges, but with CERBERUS involved, the stakes are even higher. I head to my quarters to don my suit and retrieve my shield, the familiar weight a comfort as I strap it to my arm. The sense of purpose is invigorating, a reminder of why we do what we do.
[Outpost, Upstate New York]
[Quinjet.] The hum of the Quinjet's engines fills the cabin as we soar through the sky. I stand near the cockpit, watching the landscape blur below us. Sam pilots the jet. "ETA ten minutes," he announces. I turn to the rest of the team, who are seated and checking their gear. "Remember, our primary objective is to gather intel and neutralize any threats," I remind them, "Stay sharp and watch each other's backs." Spartan gives me a thumbs-up while Natasha and Wanda exchange a nod. The tension in the air is palpable, but it's also a reminder of our shared commitment. As we approach our destination, the Quinjet descends smoothly, and Sam brings us in for a stealth landing just outside a dense forest. The trees provide ample cover as we disembark, moving swiftly and silently. "Spartan, you're up," I say. He activates his stealth-camo and disappears into the foliage, his footsteps barely audible. The rest of us fan out, staying low and alert. Wanda's eyes glow faintly as she uses her powers to sense any disturbances around us. Minutes feel like hours as we wait for Spartan's report. Finally, his voice comes through the comlink. "Cap, I've got a visual on a CERBERUS outpost. Small but heavily guarded. Looks like they're setting up some kind of operation," he whispers. "Any signs of hostages or high-value targets?" I ask. "Negative. Just personnel and equipment," he replies. "Alright, sit tight. We're on our way," I say. "Sam, keep an eye on our perimeter from above. Natasha, you and I will take point. Wanda, Karai, provide cover from the rear."
As we move toward Spartan's position, the forest seems to close in around us, the sounds of wildlife a stark contrast to the mission's tension. We regroup with Spartan, who points out the outpost through a gap in the trees. The CERBERUS soldiers are efficient, their movements precise as they set up equipment and patrol the area. "We need to disable whatever they're planning," I say, "Natasha, see if you can get close and plant a few charges. Spartan, you're our backup if things go south. Wanda, be ready to use your abilities to disrupt their operations." Natasha nods and slips away, her movements as silent as a shadow. We watch as she infiltrates the outpost, placing charges at key points. The seconds tick by, each one a nerve-wracking eternity. Finally, she signals that the charges are set. "On my mark," I say, my voice low but firm, "Three… two… one… now." The explosions are precise and controlled, taking out the equipment without causing unnecessary collateral damage. The CERBERUS soldiers scramble in confusion, and we move in, taking advantage of the chaos. Spartan and I engage the remaining guards; our movements are coordinated and lethal. Wanda uses her powers to disable their weapons while Natasha provides cover. In a matter of minutes, the outpost is secured.
Sam lands nearby, his wings retracting with a soft whir as he touches down beside me. "Is it just me, or does this feel way too easy to anyone else?" he asks, his voice tinged with the unease we're all feeling. He's right. We've fought our fair share of CERBERUS soldiers, and they're not the type to go down without a serious fight. I glance around, taking in the scene. The CERBERUS outpost is eerily quiet now, the only sounds being the faint crackle of the destroyed equipment and the distant rustle of the wind through the trees. The soldiers we encountered were skilled, no doubt about that, but there was something off about the whole engagement. Their response time was slower, their coordination sloppy, and they seemed almost… distracted. "Yeah," I reply, my voice low as I continue to scan the area for any signs of a trap. "This doesn't sit right with me either." I exchange a look with Natasha, who's crouched a few feet away, her eyes narrowed as she studies the horizon. Wanda stands nearby, her hands still faintly glowing with residual energy, her expression one of focused concern. Even Spartan, who's usually the first to shrug off a victory with a stoic nod, seems unsettled, his eyes scanning the tree line with suspicion. "This isn't their usual MO," Natasha murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper as she moves closer, "CERBERUS is usually more coordinated and more prepared."
"Or maybe the intel team was wrong, and this isn't CERBERUS," Karai suggests, her eyes scanning the area around us with a mix of skepticism and wariness. Her tone is cautious, almost as if she's trying to convince herself as much as the rest of us. I can see the tension in her posture, the way her hand hovers close to her weapon, ready to react at a moment's notice. "It wouldn't be the first time we've been sent on a wild goose chase because of bad intel," she presses. Her words hang in the air, and I feel a ripple of doubt stir within me. The thought crosses my mind that maybe, just maybe, this isn't what we've been led to believe. We've been burned by bad intel before, sent on missions that turned out to be nothing more than elaborate distractions. The memory of those false alarms still lingers, a reminder that even the best intel can sometimes be flawed. I exchange a glance with Natasha, who is crouched nearby, her expression as unreadable as ever. She's been through enough missions to know when something feels off, and I can tell she shares my unease. "Well, there's one way to find out," Spartan says, breaking the silence. His voice is steady, laced with the kind of resolve that comes from years of facing the unknown. He points toward a large door at the far end of the outpost, its imposing frame standing out against the otherwise nondescript surroundings, "We investigate the site."
His words are simple and direct, but they carry the weight of a decision that could shift the entire course of our mission. There's no turning back once we step through that door, no room for second-guessing. I feel the familiar knot of tension tighten in my gut, the anticipation of what lies beyond that threshold mixing with the adrenaline that's been coursing through my veins since we touched down. I nod, more to myself than anyone else, and gesture for the team to follow Spartan's lead. As we move forward, the forest seems to close in around us, the towering trees casting long shadows that dance eerily in the fading light. Every step feels deliberate, each sound amplified in the heavy silence that surrounds us. The ground beneath our feet is uneven, the foliage thick and tangled, making our progress slow but deliberate. My senses are on high alert, every nerve ending tuned to the possibility of danger lurking in the darkness. We reach the door, and I can feel the tension in the air, the collective breath we're all holding as Spartan examines the entryway. He moves with a precision that's become second nature, his hands deftly working to disable any potential traps or alarms that might be waiting for us on the other side. There's a moment of quiet as he finishes, a brief pause before he glances back at us, giving a slight nod to signal that it's clear.
[Inside.] I steel myself, gripping my shield a little tighter as we prepare to breach the door. Spartan pushes it open, and we're immediately met with the cold, sterile air of the facility inside. The contrast is jarring, the harsh fluorescent lights flickering to life as we step into the corridor. The space is eerily empty, the walls lined with machinery and equipment that hum softly in the background. There's a sense of abandonment here as if the place was hastily evacuated or left to its own devices. We move cautiously, our footsteps echoing off the metal floors as we fan out to cover more ground. "Keep your eyes open," I murmur into the comlink, my voice low.
Natasha moves ahead, her movements fluid and silent as she checks each room, her eyes scanning for any sign of activity. Karai is right behind her, her weapons at the ready, her every sense tuned to the environment around us. Spartan stays close to me, his gaze fixed ahead, his expression set in that determined, unwavering mask he always wears in the field. As we turn a corner, the corridor opens up into a large, open space—an operations center by the looks of it. The room is filled with terminals and displays, most of them dark, but a few still flickering with life, showing snippets of data that make little sense at a glance. It's clear that whatever was happening here was important, but there's no sign of the people who were running the show.
There's a sense of foreboding here. I turn to the team's hacker expert, Karai, who's already scanning the room with sharp, analytical eyes. She's good—one of the best—and if there's anything to find, she'll find it. "Karai," I say, my voice cutting through the eerie silence, "Check the computers. See if you can find any intel." Karai moves with purpose, her fingers already flying over the keyboard of one of the still-active terminals. The screen lights up under her touch, lines of code and encrypted data streaming across it. She's in her element here, her focus narrowing to the task at hand, her mind working through the layers of security like she's dismantling a puzzle piece by piece. The sound of Karai's typing is the only noise, a rapid-fire rhythm that echoes through the otherwise silent space. Finally, Karai freezes, her hands hovering over the keyboard. I catch the flicker of something—disbelief? Shock?—in her eyes before she schools her features back into their usual mask of calm. She turns to look at me, and I can see the gravity of whatever she's found reflected in her gaze. "Steve," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, "This isn't a CERBERUS outpost. It's… something else." There's a pause, a heavy one, and I step closer, needing to know what's got her so rattled. "This place," she continues, gesturing to the data streaming across the screen, "It's a facility linked to Weapon X." The name means nothing to me. "Weapon X?" I repeat, trying to make sense of it, "What is that?" Karai shakes her head, her eyes fixed on the screen, trying to piece together the scattered bits of data. "No idea," she admits. "Did you manage to gather any more intel on this… Weapon X?" I ask, hoping for some piece of information that could give us a clearer picture. She shakes her head, her frustration evident, "No. The data's been completely wiped."
"Alright," I say, letting the weight of my words settle over the team like a thick fog, "We'll deal with the Weapon X mystery later. Our main priority is to focus on CERBERUS." My voice is steady, but inside, a storm of thoughts and emotions churns. It's not easy to compartmentalize, to push aside the ominous discovery of something as potentially dangerous as Weapon X, but it's what needs to be done. Years of leadership have taught me the value of focus, of keeping the mission at the forefront, even when the unexpected threatens to derail everything. The team nods in silent agreement.
Wanda stands a little taller, her hands no longer glowing but still crackling with the energy that lies just beneath her skin. Her eyes meet mine, and for a brief moment, I see the flicker of worry there, the kind that comes from knowing too much about the darkness in the world. She's always had a sixth sense about these things, a way of sensing when something isn't right. But she doesn't voice her concerns; she just nods, her jaw set in that way that tells me she's ready to face whatever comes next. Natasha's gaze is hard, her eyes narrowed as she processes the information. She's been in the game long enough to recognize when a situation is more complicated than it appears, and I know she's already running through a dozen different scenarios in her head, planning for every contingency. Her ability to stay calm, to keep a cool head even when the world is burning down around us, is one of the reasons I trust her so implicitly. She doesn't say anything, just gives a sharp nod. Spartan stands a few steps behind me, his posture relaxed but with an alertness that suggests he's ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. He's a man of few words, but his silence speaks volumes. I know he's already thinking about the next move, how we're going to take down CERBERUS, and what we'll do if this Weapon X mystery rears its head again. There's a cold, calculated precision to the way he operates, something that makes him invaluable in situations like this. But I can also sense the unease in him, a subtle tension that he's trying to mask. He's used to being the one in control, the one who knows exactly what's happening, and the uncertainty of this new threat has thrown him off balance. Still, he nods. Karai's still at the console, her fingers twitching with the need to do something more, to dig deeper into the data and find the answers we need. But she knows the order has been given, and she pulls her hands back from the keyboard, her expression tight with frustration. She's a genius when it comes to hacking to unraveling the digital knots that others try to hide behind, and I can tell that not having all the pieces of the puzzle is driving her crazy. But she meets my gaze and nods, her resolve as strong as the rest of ours. And then there's Sam, standing near the entrance, his eyes scanning the room, always the sentinel. He's the one who keeps us grounded, who reminds us that even in the face of the unknown, we have each other. His wings are folded neatly behind him, but I can see the restlessness in him, the need to be up in the air to see the bigger picture from above. He's ready, though, ready to lead us out of here and into whatever comes next.
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders like an old, familiar coat. It's not the first time we've faced something we don't fully understand, and it won't be the last. But we're the Avengers, and this is what we do. We adapt, we overcome, and we protect the world from whatever threats come our way.
"Let's move out," I say, my voice cutting through the tension that's thick in the air. The team falls into formation, their movements quick and efficient, each of them slipping back into their roles with the ease of long practice. There's a comfort in that, in the way we move together, like pieces of a well-oiled machine. As we make our way back through the facility, the halls echoing with our footsteps, I can't shake the feeling that we've just opened the door to something much bigger than we realize. The mystery of Weapon X lingers in the back of my mind, a shadow that won't go away, but for now, we have a more important mission to complete. And that's exactly what we're going to do.
[SHIELD HQ, New York City]
The Quinjet's engines whir to a halt as we touch down at SHIELD HQ, the towering glass and steel structure reflecting the early morning light. The team and I move with purpose, our presence a familiar one here. The CERBERUS soldiers we arrested are escorted off the jet by SHIELD agents, their expressions masked by the standard-issue helmets they wear, but there's a coldness in their demeanor that's unsettling. They don't struggle, don't resist—just march forward with a chilling calm that sets my instincts on edge. It's as if they know something we don't as if they're already two steps ahead of us in a game we didn't even realize we were playing.
[Interrogation Room.] The interrogation rooms are cold and clinical—each one a small, featureless box designed to strip away any sense of control from the occupant. The CERBERUS soldiers are seated in the center of the room, their hands cuffed to the metal table before them. I watch from the observation room as the SHIELD agents prepare to question them. These are men and women who've seen it all, who've interrogated some of the most dangerous people on the planet. But today, there's a tension in the air, a silent acknowledgment that this isn't going to be a routine procedure. The first agent steps into the room, his demeanor professional but with a hard edge that speaks to years of experience. He begins with the usual questions—name, rank, mission—but the soldiers remain silent, their eyes fixed straight ahead, unblinking. There's an eerie stillness to them, a sense of detachment that sends a shiver down my spine. It's not fear I see in their eyes—it's something else, something darker. Minutes tick by with no response, and the tension in the room ratchets up with each passing second. I can see the frustration building in the agent, his jaw tightening as he tries a different line of questioning, something designed to provoke a reaction. But the soldiers remain unresponsive, their silence more unsettling than any threats they could have made. It's as if they've already resigned themselves to whatever fate awaits them as if they're beyond caring about the consequences.
Then, one of the agents makes a motion to one of the soldiers, a signal to speak, to give us something—anything—that could shed light on what CERBERUS is planning. The soldier just stares back, his gaze empty but unyielding. And then, in one swift motion, he opens his mouth wide, revealing a horrifying truth. His tongue—gone. The raw, jagged remains are all that's left, a brutal testament to the lengths these fanatics will go to protect their secrets. My stomach churns at the sight, the realization hitting like a punch to the gut. "Damn it," I mutter under my breath, my hands balling into fists at my sides. The other soldiers follow suit, opening their mouths to show the same grisly mutilation. It's a sickening sight, and I have to fight the urge to turn away. They've done this willingly—cut out their own tongues to ensure they couldn't betray anything under interrogation. It's the kind of fanaticism that makes your blood run cold, the kind that shows just how deeply CERBERUS has indoctrinated its followers. I should've expected it, I think, a bitter taste filling my mouth. This isn't the first time we've dealt with zealots, with people so devoted to their cause that they'll do anything to protect it. But seeing it up close, seeing the lengths they've gone to… it's different. It's personal now. The SHIELD agents exchange uneasy glances, the gravity of the situation sinking in. There's nothing more to be done here—no information to be gleaned, no leverage to be had. These soldiers are effectively useless to us, their silence as impenetrable as the walls of this facility.
[Hallway.] The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow on the polished floors as the team, and I make our way down the long hallway back to the quinjet. The mission didn't yield the results we hoped for. Everyone's processing the dead end we've hit and what it means for our next move against CERBERUS. Rounding a corner, Spartan, who's been walking a few paces ahead, suddenly halts, his entire body tensing like a coiled spring. His hand instinctively hovers near his weapon, muscles rippling with barely contained energy. It's a posture I've seen him take countless times in the field, a sign that something has triggered his fight instincts. "What the hell are they doing here?" he growls, his voice a low rumble that sends a ripple of alertness through the team. I follow his line of sight, my gaze cutting through the crowded hallway filled with SHIELD personnel and agents going about their duties. And then I see them—the Thunderbolts. They stand out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of SHIELD's ordered chaos, their presence an unexpected and unwelcome intrusion. At the forefront is John Walker, his broad-shouldered frame and imposing demeanor unmistakable, even in this sea of agents. His presence alone is enough to set off alarms in my mind, but it's the figure standing beside him that truly catches me off guard.
Ava Starr, also known as Ghost, stands among the group, her presence like a specter from the past. Her pale, almost ethereal appearance contrasts sharply with the rugged, militaristic look of the rest of the Thunderbolts. She's always been an enigma—a rogue element that defies easy categorization. The last time we crossed paths, she was in a dark place, driven by pain and desperation. Seeing her now, flanked by John Walker and his crew, stirs something uneasy within me. Walker's eyes meet mine across the distance, and there's a flicker of recognition, quickly followed by a steely resolve that I've come to expect from him. There's been a tension between us, an unspoken rivalry born from our different approaches to justice and leadership.
The hallway feels narrower now, the space between us and the Thunderbolts shrinking as if the air itself is closing in. I can feel the team around me shift subtly into a more defensive stance—Natasha's hand moving closer to her belt, where her Widow's Bite is ready for quick action; Wanda's eyes narrowing slightly as if she's already preparing to unleash her powers if necessary; Sam's gaze flicking between the Thunderbolts and the exit, always the strategist, always planning for the worst. Ava's eyes flicker over us, her expression unreadable, though there's something in her gaze that suggests a mix of surprise and something more guarded. It's hard to say what her presence here means—whether she's truly aligned with Walker's team or if she's here under different circumstances. But one thing is clear: the situation just became a whole lot more complicated. I step forward, closing the distance between us, my posture deliberately non-threatening but firm. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, and I can sense the rest of the team on high alert, ready to back me up at a moment's notice. "Walker," I say, my voice steady, though there's an edge of steel beneath the surface, "What brings you and your team to SHIELD HQ?" Walker's expression doesn't change, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes—a challenge, maybe, or an unspoken understanding that this encounter isn't just a casual meeting. "We're here on official business, Rogers," he replies, his tone clipped, professional, but with that underlying bravado that's become his trademark. "Just like you, we've got our own leads to follow."
I glance at Ava again, her presence raising too many questions. "And Ghost?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral, though the implication is clear, "Since when did she join your operation?" Ava's gaze sharpens slightly, and there's a flicker of emotion—irritation, perhaps—before she masks it. "I'm here of my own accord," she says, her voice as cold and distant as I remember it, "CERBERUS isn't just your problem, Rogers. We've all got a stake in taking them down." Her words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, and I can feel the weight of this unexpected encounter pressing down on us. There's a part of me that wants to question her further, to understand what's driven her into Walker's fold, but now isn't the time. The tension in the hallway is palpable, and while this isn't a battlefield, the stakes feel just as high. "Understood," I say finally, my voice carrying the authority of a leader but also a warning not to push further—for now, "But let's be clear—our operations stay separate. We're not here to step on each other's toes." Walker nods, but there's a glint in his eyes that tells me this won't be the last time we cross paths, "Agreed. Just make sure you don't get in our way."
With that, the Thunderbolts move on, their presence leaving a ripple of unease in their wake. As they pass by, I catch one last glance from Ava, a look that I can't quite decipher—a mix of challenge and something else, something that hints at the complexities still to come. The team and I stand there for a moment longer, watching them disappear down the hallway. The encounter leaves a sour taste in my mouth, the kind that only comes when you know things are about to get a whole lot more complicated. Karai's voice cuts through the silence, her words hanging heavy in the air. "Ava is out on a vendetta," she comments, her tone laced with a mix of understanding and concern. The observation is sharp and precise—typical of Karai's keen intellect. But there's something more there, something that suggests she's pieced together a puzzle that the rest of us are only just beginning to see.
I glance over at Karai, catching the thoughtful expression on her face. Her eyes are distant, focused on some point far ahead as if she's already running through the implications of what she just said. "Zemo did kill Wilson Fisk," she continues, her voice dropping to a more contemplative tone, "The closest thing she had to a father." The weight of her words settles over us like a heavy blanket, suffocating the remnants of tension from our encounter with the Thunderbolts. It's not just a comment—it's a revelation, one that casts Ava's presence in a whole new light. Ava Starr—Ghost—isn't just another mercenary caught up in the chaos of the world we live in. She's on a mission, driven by something far more personal and far more dangerous than any allegiance to John Walker or the Thunderbolts. Revenge is a powerful motivator, one that can push people to do things they wouldn't normally consider. I've seen it before, and I've seen what it can do to people—how it can consume them, twist them into something they no longer recognize when they look in the mirror. The name Wilson Fisk—Kingpin—carries weight. A name that echoes through the underworld like a shadowy specter. He was a criminal mastermind, a ruthless leader who ruled his empire with an iron fist. But he was also a man, and to Ava, he was more than just a crime lord—he was a father figure, the only real family she ever had. Zemo's actions—his cold, calculated move to eliminate Fisk—cut deeper than any blade ever could.
"Vendetta," I repeat softly, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. I've been around long enough to know that a vendetta isn't just a quest for justice—it's a spiral into darkness, one that often leads to more destruction and more pain. Ava is out for blood, and she won't stop until she gets it. The realization sits heavy in my chest, a reminder of the complexities of the world we navigate—where alliances shift like sand, and the lines between right and wrong blur into shades of gray. Karai's eyes meet mine, and in that shared glance, there's a mutual understanding. We both know what this means and what it could lead to. Ava's quest for revenge doesn't just put her at odds with Zemo; it puts her at odds with anyone who stands in her way, including us. And if she's aligned herself with Walker and the Thunderbolts to achieve her goal, then we're dealing with a ticking time bomb—one that could go off at any moment. "We'll need to keep an eye on her," I say, "She might be after Zemo, but if she crosses a line, we'll have to be ready to step in."
[Ava Starr POV]
The stark white walls of the SHIELD hallway seem to close in around me, sterile and cold, as if the very air here is laced with suspicion. It's not my first time in a place like this—government facilities all have the same oppressive feel, the same underlying tension that buzzes just beneath the surface. But this time, the tension is different. It's personal. I keep my steps measured and controlled as we move through the corridor, John Walker leading the way with that self-assured stride of his. The rest of the Thunderbolts follow close behind, each of us a silent sentinel in this place that feels more like enemy territory than an ally's headquarters. I can feel the eyes of SHIELD agents on us, their wary glances trailing after us as if we're wolves let loose among sheep. And maybe we are. The silence between us feels heavy, thick with unspoken words and lingering distrust. It's not lost on me that we're here under less-than-ideal circumstances, and it grates on my nerves. I've never been one to play nice with authority, and the idea of being paraded through SHIELD HQ like some kind of necessary evil doesn't sit well with me. "What exactly are we doing here, Walker?" I ask, finally breaking the silence, my voice carrying just enough edge to make it clear I'm not in the mood for bullshit, "Last I checked, SHIELD doesn't like the Thunderbolts treading on their turf." Walker doesn't break stride, doesn't even look back at me, but I see the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders stiffen just a fraction. "It's a joint task force," he states, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact, like he's reciting something he's been told to say a hundred times over. "Whether they like it or not, they have to work with us. CERBERUS is making a lot of the higher-ups nervous."
A joint task force. The words roll around in my mind, cold and impersonal, like a bad joke. I can't help but let out a quiet snort of disbelief. It's not just about CERBERUS—there's always more to it than that. There always is. SHIELD doesn't do anything without a dozen layers of bureaucratic red tape and hidden agendas. And Walker—he's a company man, through and through, the kind who follows orders and expects everyone else to fall in line. But me? I'm not here because I believe in their cause or because I trust the people giving the orders. I'm here for one reason and one reason only—Zemo. And if working with Walker and his team gets me closer to that goal, then so be it. I'll play along for now.
"Sure," I say, my voice laced with just enough sarcasm to let him know I'm not buying the official line, "And I'm sure SHIELD just loves the idea of working with us." Walker finally glances back at me, his expression unreadable, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes—irritation, maybe, or the beginnings of doubt. "Orders are orders," he replies, a hint of steel creeping into his voice, "CERBERUS is too big a threat to handle alone." I study him for a moment, weighing his words against the reality I know. CERBERUS is dangerous, no doubt about that. They've got their hands in everything, and they're not afraid to get bloody. But this? This alliance, this forced cooperation—it feels like a powder keg waiting to explode.
And then there's the other thing, the thing that gnaws at the back of my mind, the reason I'm really here. Wilson Fisk—Kingpin. He was many things to many people, but to me, he was the closest thing I had to a father. Zemo took that from me, and the memory of it burns like acid in my veins. I don't care about CERBERUS, not really. What I care about is revenge, and I'll burn the whole damn world down if it means I get my shot at Zemo. But for now, I keep that to myself. There's no need to tip my hand. Walker can play his games and pretend this is all about some noble cause. "Fine," I say, falling back into step beside him, my tone more neutral now, "But don't expect me to play by their rules. I'm here to get results, not to make friends." Walker's gaze meets mine, and there's a moment of understanding—an uneasy truce between us. He knows I'm not here to follow orders, and I know he's not about to let me go rogue. But we both know that when the time comes, when the stakes are highest, we'll do what needs to be done, no matter the cost. The mission ahead is just a means to an end, and when the time comes, when the moment is right, I'll strike.