Chapter 67:
[Zemo POV]
[Days Later, CERBERUS HQ, New York City]
I recline in my leather chair, my eyes fixed on the flickering screen in front of me. The news reports the downfall of the HAND, once a formidable force in the criminal underworld, now reduced to rubble by what seems like a mere coalition of amateurs. I scoff, my lips curling into a derisive sneer. The HAND, with all its resources, its network of operatives, and its strategic prowess, was brought to its knees by a ragtag group of vigilantes, no more sophisticated than a pack of stray dogs. It's an embarrassment, a stain on the legacy of organizations like CERBERUS. As I watch the footage of masked figures triumphing over the remnants of the HAND's forces, a surge of contempt washes over me. How could such incompetence be tolerated in this world of cutthroat ambition and calculated moves? Yet, amidst my disdain, a flicker of curiosity ignites within me. Perhaps there is more to these vigilantes than meets the eye. Perhaps they are not as insignificant as they appear, their victory hinting at a hidden strength, a hidden agenda. I lean forward, my mind already plotting, my interest piqued by the potential of these newfound players on the board of New York City's underworld. There's something about their unexpected success that demands further investigation. Maybe, just maybe, these street-tier vigilantes have unwittingly stumbled upon a strategy or a secret that could be of use to me. As I consider the possibilities, a slow, calculating smile spreads across my face. The downfall of the HAND might just be the beginning of a new game, one where I hold all the cards.
Rising from my seat, I make my way toward the communication control center, the soft hum of the equipment and a familiar and reassuring background noise. My fingers dance over the controls as I establish a secure line to my asset, my mind already several steps ahead, plotting the next move. The voice on the other end crackles to life, steady and efficient as always. "Status report," I demand. "I'm currently tailing the target," my asset informs me, his voice low and composed. "Captain America is also on site." I pause for a moment, considering this new development. The presence of Captain America could complicate matters, but I quickly dismiss the thought. I'm not too concerned about the First Avenger. His adherence to outdated notions of honor and morality makes him predictable, and predictability can be exploited. "Maintain your position," I instruct. "Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Our objective remains unchanged." As I disconnect the call, I turn my attention back to the unfolding events. Captain America's involvement is an unexpected variable but one that could be turned to our advantage. His presence might draw attention away from our true objective, providing the perfect cover for our operations. I can almost see the pieces moving on the chessboard, each action and reaction meticulously planned. With a new sense of purpose, I return to my seat, my mind racing with possibilities. The game is afoot, and I am determined to stay several moves ahead of my adversaries. In this world of shadows and deception, only the cunning survive, and I have no intention of being outmaneuvered. Captain America may be on site, but the real battle is being fought in the shadows, where I reign supreme.
[Drake POV]
[Decommissioned Hospital Building, Chicago]
[Rooftop.] Skeith and I watch two black limousines cruise down the street and stop in front of a decommissioned hospital building. The sky is cloudless and light, and the evening rush is just starting to set in, the hum of traffic growing louder by the minute. From our vantage point on the rooftop, we can see the high-end cars in the parking lot, a clear indication of new investment. Tech startups and other types of businesses, no doubt. It goes to show you how little human life means to those with money and influence. Hell, they'll close down the only hospital within the area if it helps them advance their resources and money flow. I can almost hear the echoes of the past, the distant cries of patients, and the hurried footsteps of doctors and nurses. Now, it's all replaced by the silent, polished vehicles of the wealthy, their dark windows hiding deals and decisions that impact countless lives. The transformation of this building from a place of healing to a symbol of greed.
Human greed is an interesting thing to watch play out sometimes. It's like a disease, spreading and consuming everything in its path. These investors, these so-called visionaries, see only profit margins and bottom lines. The hospital once served as a lifeline for this community, but that meant nothing in the face of a lucrative business opportunity. The irony is almost too much to bear. They speak of progress and innovation, but at what cost? The loss of a critical healthcare facility is brushed aside as a necessary sacrifice for the greater good—their greater good. Skeith nudges me, breaking my reverie. "They're getting out," she says, nodding toward the limousines. Men in tailored suits emerge, their movements purposeful and confident. They exchange briefcases and handshakes, the universal language of power and corruption. "Look at them," I mutter, my voice tinged with disdain, "They think they own the world." "Maybe they do," Skeith replies, her tone equally bitter, "But they don't own us." I watch as the group makes its way into the building, the doors closing behind them. The air is thick with the promise of deals being struck and lives being altered, all beneath the guise of progress.
I may be a psychopathic mercenary, but even I have lines I won't cross. It's a strange dichotomy, really. To the outside world, I am a creature of chaos, a weapon for hire with a penchant for violence. But within the twisted framework of my morality, there exists a code—a set of principles that governs my actions. For instance, I would never harm anyone who isn't my main target or targets. Unless there are wannabe heroes who actively try to stop me from completing my mission, then it's open season. This code is my own creation, a way to maintain some semblance of order in the chaos I inhabit. It's not that I possess a shred of nobility or altruism; it's more about efficiency and purpose. Every action I take is calculated, and every shot I fire is aimed with precision. Collateral damage is messy, unpredictable, and, ultimately, a sign of sloppiness. My targets are chosen with care, their lives deemed forfeit by forces far above my pay grade. They know the stakes, and so do I. But innocent bystanders? They are not part of the contract, not part of the game. Take, for instance, the incident in Berlin. My target was a corrupt CEO, a man whose greed and deceit had destroyed countless lives. I tracked him to a high-end restaurant, his fortress of opulence and arrogance. The plan was simple: get in, eliminate the target, get out. But plans rarely survive contact with reality. As I made my move, a security detail emerged from nowhere, guns drawn and ready to protect their employer. In the chaos, civilians ducked for cover, terrified screams filling the air. Yet, I maneuvered through the chaos with one singular focus: the target. The security guards were merely obstacles, dispatched swiftly and efficiently. But the patrons? They were beneath my notice, mere shadows on the periphery of my mission.
However, not all scenarios are so clear-cut. Occasionally, some misguided soul decides to play hero, thinking they can stop me and save the day. It's almost laughable. They see themselves as champions of justice, but in truth, they are nothing more than distractions. And distractions in my line of work can be fatal. So, when these would-be heroes step into my path, I deal with them accordingly. There's no room for hesitation or mercy; it's a matter of survival, a test of will and skill. They become part of the mission's collateral, an unfortunate consequence of their own misguided bravery. Skeith often questions this part of my code. She wonders why I don't simply eliminate everyone in my path and why I bother with such distinctions. It's a fair question, one that I've pondered myself. The answer lies in control. In a life defined by violence and bloodshed, maintaining control is crucial. The lines I draw and the rules I follow keep me grounded.
From the corner of my eye, I catch the movement within the cover of the night. Captain America. The 40s super soldier follows the target into the building, entering via a different path. His presence is unmistakable—the iconic shield strapped to his back, his silhouette a blend of stealth and strength. He moves with a purpose that only a soldier of his caliber can muster, a relic from a bygone era yet still formidable in this modern age. But admiration is fleeting. My focus snaps back to my own objectives. The target, unaware of the super soldier trailing him, is oblivious to the convergence of forces about to unfold. My target. Captain America's presence complicates matters, but it also presents an opportunity. If he engages the target first, it could create the distraction I need. My mind races with the possibilities and scenarios playing out in rapid succession. Skeith shifts beside me, her gaze following mine. "What's he doing here?" she whispers her tone a mix of curiosity and irritation. "Same as us," I reply, my voice low. "He's after the target." "Think he'll get in the way?" she asks, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her knife. I shake my head, eyes never leaving the building. "He's a wildcard, but one we can use. Let him draw the attention, we move in when the moment's right."
Inside, the building is a labyrinth of hallways and rooms, a stark contrast to its once orderly and sterile environment. The abandoned hospital now serves as a clandestine meeting spot for shady deals and power plays, a fitting backdrop for the night's events. I watch as Captain America slips through an alternate entrance, his form disappearing into the gloom. The seconds tick by, each one heavy with anticipation. My heartbeat syncs with the rhythmic pulse of the city, an electric undercurrent that fuels my resolve. Captain America's path through the building is methodical, a hunter stalking his prey. He has the advantage of being seen as a hero, a symbol. I, on the other hand, thrive in the anonymity of the shadows. Suddenly, a faint sound reaches my ears—a muffled thud, the prelude to conflict. Captain America must have encountered the target's guards. The fight is swift and brutal, the super soldier making short work of the opposition. My moment is near. The chaos inside will mask my approach, providing the cover I need to strike. "Skeith, stay sharp," I murmur, my eyes narrowing as I spot an opening. "We're moving in."
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Inside.] I slowly lower the unconscious body of the security guard and hide him away inside a supply closet. The corridor is dimly lit, the flickering fluorescent lights casting shadows along the walls. I take a moment to listen, my senses heightened, picking up the faint hum of electricity and the distant murmur of voices deeper within the building. The place smells of dust and neglect, yet the presence of my target and his entourage gives it an undercurrent of danger. Every mission has its risks, and this one is no different. The intel had been clear: the target was meeting here tonight, shielded by a small army of hired guns. I move silently down the hallway, my steps carefully measured. The building's layout is familiar, its labyrinthine design a testament to its former life as a hospital. I know these halls all too well, having memorized every twist and turn, every nook and cranny that could provide the slightest advantage. As I move through the building, I can't help but think about the lives this place once saved. Now, it's a stark contrast, a haven for corruption and greed. I pass by a dilapidated waiting area, the chairs overturned, remnants of its past scattered across the floor. It's almost symbolic of the fight we're waging—a constant battle to preserve the good amidst the chaos and destruction. I reach a corner and pause, peering around it. Two more guards stand watch by a set of double doors, their posture relaxed but alert. They don't see me coming. With practiced precision, I move swiftly, dispatching them with a few well-placed blows. They crumple to the ground, unconscious but unharmed. I drag their bodies to the side, concealing them behind a row of cabinets.
The double doors are my next obstacle. I press my ear against them, straining to hear. Muffled voices filter through, the cadence suggesting a heated discussion. The target is in there, along with his key associates. I open the door just enough to get a look inside. Six men surround a table, their postures tense and their expressions serious. Each side presents a briefcase. Some type of shady deal is going down.
I take a moment to survey the room. The overhead light casts long shadows, highlighting the lines of worry and greed etched on their faces. The table is littered with documents and gadgets, hints of the transaction's high stakes. The target, a man with a scar running down his cheek, stands at the head of the table, commanding attention. His associates flank him, their eyes darting nervously between the briefcases and their counterparts on the other side. The opposing group consists of well-dressed men, their tailored suits a stark contrast to the dilapidated surroundings. One of them, a tall figure with a confident demeanor, opens his briefcase slightly, revealing stacks of crisp banknotes. I push the door a little wider, ensuring I remain concealed in the shadows. The target's voice rises above the murmur, sharp and commanding.
"We need assurance this won't come back to us," he says, his tone brokering no argument. His counterpart nods, a slick smile spreading across his face. "You have my word. This transaction benefits us both, but more importantly, it keeps the authorities off our backs." My grip tightens on my shield then I notice the security camera in the corner, its red light blinking. They're cautious, covering their tracks meticulously. I'll have to take out the camera first, ensuring there's no footage of what's about to go down. I retreat slightly, taking a small EMP device from my belt. A quick throw and the camera sparks and goes dark, unnoticed by the men engrossed in their deal. With the camera disabled, I jump to my feet in a burst. The men around the table react in shock, some reaching for weapons, others frozen. I move quickly, my shield deflecting bullets as I close the distance to the table. The first man goes down with a well-placed punch, his gun skittering across the floor. I use the momentum to swing my shield into another, knocking him unconscious. The target scrambles back, eyes wide. "Captain America!" he gasps, clearly unprepared for this confrontation. Within moments, they're disarmed and incapacitated, the room filled with the groans of the defeated. I turn my attention to the target, who's trying to flee through a side door. I throw my shield, and it ricochets off the walls, cutting off his escape. He stumbles and falls, looking up at me with a mix of fear and defiance. "You can't stop this," he spits. "The deal is already set." I approach him, retrieving my shield. "We'll see about that," I reply, my voice steady. "You're coming with me, and you're going to tell me everything." Securing the target, I pause for a moment, thinking.
Based on my experience, most ops have their easy run and hard run. This particular op is strangely anticlimactic. The target may be a criminal, but he isn't anything noticeable. Just a corrupt businessman. There's no grandeur, no elaborate security detail, no heavily fortified safe house. It feels almost too easy as if the universe is handing me a freebie. The man cowers in front of me, once so confident and commanding, now looks pathetically small. His expensive suit and the luxurious trappings of his illicit dealings are just a facade, a thin veneer masking his true nature. He's not a mastermind or a kingpin; he's just another greedy soul who thought he could rise above the law. The businessman, trembling now, tries to negotiate, his voice a mix of desperation and bravado. "We can work something out, Captain," he stammers, "I can make it worth your while." I've heard it all before. The empty promises, the futile attempts to bribe or manipulate. It never changes. I cut him off with a glare. "You're done. Your money can't buy you out of this." As I cuff him, I think about the bigger picture.
This man is a small cog in a much larger machine. His downfall won't change the system overnight, but it's a start. Every corrupt official taken down, every shady deal exposed, is a step toward a more just world. It's the cumulative effect of these actions that matters. The anticlimactic nature of the op doesn't diminish its importance. In fact, it underscores a crucial aspect of my work: the fight for justice isn't always about dramatic heroics. Often, it's about persistence and determination, chipping away at the corruption and greed that permeates society. It's about making sure that even those who think they're untouchable face the consequences of their actions. The room is silent now, the initial shock and chaos replaced by a heavy stillness. I lead the businessman out, past the unconscious guards and the remnants of their illicit meeting. Outside, the night air is cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the stuffy tension inside. The city lights twinkle in the distance, each one representing a life, a story, a reason to keep fighting.
[Drake POV]
From around the corner, Skeith and I witness Captain America make his leave from the building, towing the corrupt businessman behind him. We remain perfectly still, our breathing synchronized with the shadows around us. As the sounds of their footsteps fade, Skeith gives me a quick nod. We spring into action, our movements swift and silent. Moving fast, we dash into the room they exited. The air is thick with tension, the remnants of Captain America's confrontation still palpable. The room is dimly lit, with overturned chairs and scattered documents hinting at the chaos that had just ensued. I quickly scan the area, assessing the situation. Skeith moves to secure the door, ensuring no one disturbs us. I quickly go for the two briefcases lying on the floor, their metallic exteriors glinting under the flickering light. I kneel down and snap open the first briefcase. My eyes widen slightly as I see the stockpile of money inside, crisp and neatly stacked. It's enough to fund our operations for months, a small fortune in unmarked bills. I shove the briefcase aside, knowing it's not our primary objective. With bated breath, I reach for the second briefcase. As I lift the lid, a soft, yellow glow illuminates my face. Inside, nestled in protective foam, is a vial of the elixir—our true prize. The liquid inside pulses with a faint luminescence, promising power beyond imagination. This elixir, capable of simulating metahuman abilities, is the key to tipping the scales in our favor. I tap my comlink, calling Zemo. "Package retrieved," is all I say. There's a brief pause on the other end before Zemo responds, his tone filled with satisfaction. "Excellent work, Drake. Return to base immediately."
Closing the briefcase, I feel a sense of triumph wash over me. This mission has been a success. With the elixir in our possession, our plans can move forward. I glance over at Skeith, who is already scanning the room for any other valuable intel. Her sharp eyes catch a stack of documents on the table, and she quickly rifles through them, pocketing anything that looks useful. We move with practiced efficiency, leaving no trace of our presence. The room, once a scene of conflict, now stands empty and silent. As we make our exit, I can't help but think about the power that lies within the briefcase. This elixir could change everything, giving us the edge we need to finally outmaneuver Captain America and his AVENGERS. Outside, the city hums with life, oblivious to the events unfolding within its shadows. We slip into the alleyways, our forms blending seamlessly with the darkness. Making our way back to our rendezvous point. This is just the beginning. With the elixir in hand, our path to dominance becomes clearer. The game has changed, and we are ready to play.
[Spartan POV]
[New York City]
Via rooftops, I traverse the city freely. The night is a vast, sprawling canvas beneath my feet, every rooftop a stepping stone in this concrete jungle. The wind rushes past me, carrying the distant sounds of the city—the honking of horns, the chatter of late-night pedestrians, and the occasional wail of a siren. Up here, above the chaos, I find a sense of clarity and purpose. The moon hangs high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the skyline. I move with precision and grace, my boots barely making a sound as they hit the surfaces of the buildings. The city stretches out before me, a labyrinth of lights and shadows, each corner hiding its own secrets. My destination tonight is Hell's Kitchen, a neighborhood notorious for its crime rate and seedy underbelly. It's a place where the line between right and wrong blurs, and justice is a rare commodity. As I leap from one rooftop to another, my mind races through the latest intel. There have been reports of increased gang activity and whispers of a new player in town looking to establish dominance. My mission is to gather information, disrupt their operations, and, if necessary, bring them down. I land on the roof of a dilapidated building, its bricks crumbling and covered in graffiti. From here, I have a clear view of the streets below. I take a moment to catch my breath, crouching low as I survey the area. The flickering neon signs of bars and clubs light up the night, casting an eerie glow on the faces of those who wander the streets. In the distance, I spot a group of men huddled together, their movements furtive and suspicious.
My instincts kick in, and I know this is where I need to be. Acting like a pair of binoculars, my HUD focuses on the group. They're exchanging something—small packages that could easily be drugs or weapons. I zoom in further, trying to catch any distinguishing features. One of the men has a tattoo on his neck, a dragon coiled around a skull, marking him as part of the Red Serpents, a gang known for its ruthlessness and territorial disputes. Switching off the binocular mode, I begin to move. I descend from the rooftop, using the fire escape to make my way down. My feet touch the ground softly, and I blend into the shadows, my dark attire making me nearly invisible.
While getting closer, I hear snippets of their conversation, enough to confirm my suspicions. They're planning a large-scale operation, something that could bring significant harm to the city. The leader, the one with the tattoo, speaks in a low, authoritative tone, "We move tomorrow night. No mistakes. The boss wants this done clean and quick." I need to gather more information, but I can't risk blowing my cover. I activate a small recording device on my wrist, capturing their conversation for later analysis. Just as I'm about to retreat, one of them looks in my direction, his eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?" he asks, his hand reaching for a gun tucked into his waistband. I hold my breath, melting further into the darkness. My heart pounds in my chest, but I remain calm. The man takes a few steps towards me, his gaze scanning the shadows. I know I have only a split second to act. In a blur of motion, I spring into action, disarming him with a swift, precise move. The others react, but I'm faster.
The fight is over in seconds, the men lying unconscious at my feet. I quickly bind their hands and feet, ensuring they won't be going anywhere soon. I check their pockets, finding a map with key locations marked—likely targets for their operation. This is valuable intel, something that can help dismantle their plans before they even begin. I contact Agent Hill, my voice low but urgent. "Hill, I've got something. Red Serpents are planning a hit tomorrow night. Sending you the coordinates now." "Got it, Spartan. I'll alert the authorities and send backup. Good work. Be careful out there," she replies, her voice steady and reassuring. I make my way back to the rooftops, the city once again unfolding beneath me. The night is far from over, and there are still many miles to cover. But with each step, I feel a sense of accomplishment, knowing that I've made a difference, however small.
[Bunker, New York City]
The Bunker is a sanctuary hidden away from the city above. The heavy steel door closes behind me; I breathe a sigh of relief, the tension of the day slowly dissipating. The air inside is cool and familiar, filled with the faint hum of the advanced technology that keeps this place running. Dim lights flicker on, casting a warm, reassuring glow over the room. The walls of the Bunker are lined with high-tech equipment and weapons, a stark contrast to the cozy living area in the center. It's a blend of functionality and comfort, a place designed for both relaxation and readiness. I shrug off my gear, placing my weapons and armor on the designated racks. The weight lifts off my shoulders, both literally and figuratively, and I feel a bit lighter. I make my way to the small kitchenette, my stomach growling in protest. It's been hours since I last ate, and the adrenaline rush from the day's events has left me ravenous. I open the fridge, grateful to find it stocked with essentials. I grab a sandwich and a bottle of water, sinking into the plush couch as I take my first bite. The taste is simple but satisfying, a reminder of the small comforts that make all the difference. Finishing my meal, I lean back and close my eyes, allowing myself a brief moment of rest. The silence is soothing. A small part of me stays on alert. It's never a good idea to get too comfortable. With a sigh, I push myself off the couch and head towards the adjacent room, a makeshift gym and training area. Despite my exhaustion, I need to maintain my edge. The life we lead demands constant vigilance and preparedness. I start with some light stretches, easing the tension in my muscles. The familiar routine is comforting, a reminder of my dedication to the cause.
The training session leaves me feeling invigorated, a renewed sense of purpose fueling my resolve. I return to the main area, taking a moment to check the security feeds. The Bunker is secure, but I know better than to let my guard down. This place is our refuge, but it's also a target. I make a mental note to review the security protocols tomorrow, ensuring everything is up to date. Finally, I make my way to my quarters, a small but comfortable space that serves as my personal retreat. The bed looks inviting, and I can't wait to sink into its softness. I change into more comfortable clothes, the day's grime and sweat left behind. Just as I'm about to close my eyes, there's a knock at the bunker's door. Without a second thought, I moved to check it out.
I open the door, and to my surprise, I find Wanda standing there. The Scarlet Witch hovers just above the ground, her presence filling the narrow entryway with an almost tangible energy. She flies over and embraces me in a tight hug, her arms wrapping around me with a warmth I didn't realize I had been missing. "Wanda, when did you get back?" I ask her, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes. They shimmer with a mix of relief and exhaustion. She pulls back from the hug, her smile weary but genuine. "Me and the other AVENGERS got back an hour ago," she says, her voice soft but filled with the strength I've always admired in her. I step aside, allowing her to enter the Bunker. She floats in, her feet finally touching the ground as she looks around the room. "You've done well keeping this place in shape," she comments, her eyes scanning the high-tech equipment and the cozy living area. "It's been a challenge," I admit, closing the door behind her, "But it's home." I watch as she takes a seat on the couch, her movements graceful despite the fatigue that clings to her. "How was the mission?" I ask, grabbing another bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to her. She takes a long sip before answering, "Tough, but we managed." She leans back, her gaze distant as if recalling the events of the past few days.
I sit down beside her, the familiar scent of her presence bringing a sense of calm. "You're safe now, that's what matters," I say, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Wanda nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Yes, and it's good to be back. I missed this place... and you." I feel a warmth spread through me at her words. "I missed you too," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, the weight of the world outside forgotten. In this moment, in this sanctuary, we find a brief respite from the chaos. The Bunker, with its mix of technology and comfort, stands as a testament to our resilience and our will to fight another day. Eventually, I break the silence. "You should get some rest. There's a spare room if you need it." Wanda nods, rising to her feet, "Thanks. But I'd rather share a bed with you." Her words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I just stare at her, processing the unexpected proposition. A mixture of surprise and warmth floods through me. "Are you sure?" I ask softly, my voice betraying the sudden flutter in my chest. She steps closer, her eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat. "I'm sure," she replies, her voice firm yet tender. "After everything we've been through, I just want to be close to you. I need that comfort tonight."
I nod, a smile tugging at my lips as I take her hand. "Alright, come on then," I say, leading her towards my quarters. The room feels different with her by my side, more complete, more like a true sanctuary. Once inside, I close the door behind us and turn to see Wanda already making herself comfortable, kicking off her shoes and stretching out on the bed. I join her, feeling the day's exhaustion melt away in her presence. We lie down together, her head resting on my chest, her hand intertwined with mine. The silence between us is comfortable, filled with unspoken words and shared understanding. The worries of the world outside seem distant, almost insignificant. Here, in this moment, it's just the two of us, finding solace in each other's company. "I love you," she whispers, breaking the silence. "Love you more," I reply, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Tonight, the Bunker is not just a refuge from the outside world but a haven of warmth and comfort. As sleep begins to claim us, I hold Wanda close, grateful for this moment of peace in our chaotic lives.