Chapter 100:
[Spartan POV]
[Weeks Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Mission Room.] Ever since the incident in Detroit, the Avengers, and SHIELD have been cracking down on CERBERUS's operations with mixed results. I stand on one of the observation decks at Avengers HQ, overlooking the vast sprawl of New York City, and I feel the weight of those mixed results bearing down on my shoulders. The city's skyline sparkles under the afternoon sun, but I know there's darkness lurking in those skyscrapers, hiding in the alleyways and abandoned warehouses. Each time we dismantle one CERBERUS cell, another springs up, armed with new resources and more advanced weaponry. It's like a never-ending cycle that tests our stamina and resolve at every turn. I remind myself that we've come a long way since Detroit—back then, we had no idea that Zemo had orchestrated the downfall of the Kingpin, effectively seizing control of New York's underground. Now, it's disturbingly clear that he has the city's entire criminal network at his disposal, plus that fabled stone artifact we fear might be capable of unleashing untold power. I'm not one to be easily rattled, but the prospect of what Zemo can accomplish with that artifact is enough to keep me up at night. Reports pour in about CERBERUS funneling money into arcane research, scouring libraries and ancient vaults for texts that might unlock deeper secrets of the stone. Rumors fly that Zemo's no longer content to rule the underworld—he has grander ambitions.
I feel the pressure mounting with each new piece of intel we uncover. Captain America tries to keep morale high, reminding us that we've faced seemingly insurmountable threats before. Still, the entire team is on edge, and I can sense the tension in every training session and briefing. Even Tony, whose bravado usually keeps us all grounded in some semblance of normalcy, has taken on a more serious demeanor. He dedicates most of his time to building upgrades for our gear, focusing on ways to counter the stone's unpredictable energies. Fury, running point on intelligence with Maria Hill, tasks me with leading recon missions across the city, hitting possible CERBERUS strongholds and safe houses in rapid succession. But it feels like trying to empty the ocean with a bucket. Every lead we track down seems to lead us to a dead end or, worse, an ambush orchestrated by Zemo's lieutenants.
The memory of our last skirmish, just a few days ago, sends a shiver through me. We walked right into a trap, and if it weren't for Natasha's quick thinking, we'd have been pinned down long enough for CERBERUS to finish us off. Even now, I'm nursing bruised ribs and a throbbing arm I can barely lift without wincing. Still, there's no time to complain. Each day we wait is another day Zemo extends his influence, possibly learning how to tap even more power from that stone. My mind drifts to what happened in Detroit: how close we were to stopping him, only for him to slip through our fingers. That frustration drives me to push harder every time I step into the training room, fueling each punch I land on the heavy bag and every strategy session where we brainstorm new angles of attack. I know we can't afford complacency; if we slip up for even a moment, Zemo wins.
At that moment, Fury walks in, and he isn't alone. The Thunderbolts are with him, led by John Walker. I guess we're finally at the stage where we're desperate enough to ask rivals for aid. The Avengers and the Thunderbolts may be on the same side, but we are definitely not on the same team. Hell, we can barely stand each other. Our first introduction almost ended in a full-on fight. I stand near the command console, and the air in the briefing room suddenly feels charged, like static before a storm. Fury crosses his arms over his chest, that stern glare telling everyone to hold their fire—literally and figuratively—while Walker steps forward with an air of authority that grates on my nerves. I've never forgotten what happened the last time we encountered him; words were exchanged, fists nearly followed. Now, his gaze sweeps across the room, landing on me for just a second, and I can sense the tension boiling beneath the surface. I notice Steve stiffen at the sight of Walker, and I'm sure the feeling is mutual. Tony, standing off to my right, looks like he's calculating a hundred different outcomes of how this meeting can spiral into chaos. Meanwhile, Natasha hovers near the far corner, arms folded, reading everybody's language cue like a seasoned interrogator. Part of me wants to confront Walker right away, just to clear the air, but I hold my tongue because Fury's presence demands respect, and we all know better than to defy him outright.
Fury clears his throat, his one good eye daring anyone to interrupt as he explains how dire the situation with CERBERUS has become. He mentions that Zemo's network is spreading faster than we can contain it and that the Thunderbolts have been drafted to cover ground where the Avengers can't. I'm not happy about it, and judging by the looks on the faces around me, I'm not alone. Still, we have no choice but to listen because right now, our mutual enemy is winning. I look at Walker, thinking about how the lines between heroism and vigilantism can blur under pressure. He's got that all-American swagger, a living embodiment of a moral code that can veer into obsession. I can't help but wonder if we're trading one problem for another, bringing the Thunderbolts into the fold when tensions are already at a boiling point. Fury states that we need to coordinate efforts, share intel, and make sure we're not stepping on each other's toes out there. Walker nods, but I see a flicker of pride in his eyes—like he's convinced his team can handle this better than we ever could.
My gut twists at the thought of relying on them. Across the table, Karai stiffens as well, her posture rigid; she's never trusted the Thunderbolts after some of their more controversial missions. I can practically taste the skepticism hanging in the air, thick enough to choke on. But we're all professionals, so we stand there in silence as Fury lays out a map of New York City on the large holographic display, marking CERBERUS bases we've identified so far. Walker exchanges a glance with his own squad—members who look just as tough and wary as he does—and I catch a hint of a sneer on one of their faces. It reminds me that while the Avengers operate under certain moral lines, the Thunderbolts aren't constrained by the same code. Maybe that's what Fury wants—an unorthodox approach that could corner Zemo where we've failed. That doesn't make it any easier to swallow. I fold my arms, trying to keep my expression neutral, but inside, I'm bracing for conflict. The briefing continues, and Fury outlines how each team will split tasks. The tension never leaves the room, though; it's a silent promise that at the first sign of disagreement, sparks will fly. When the meeting wraps up, Walker steps toward me, offering a handshake that I return with polite caution. Neither of us says much, but the grip is firm, almost challenging. As he and his team file out after Fury, I exhale a breath I don't realize I'm holding. I know that, like it or not, we're stuck with the Thunderbolts for the foreseeable future. If we're going to take down Zemo and stop CERBERUS, this uneasy alliance might be our only shot.
We all watch in silence as the door closes behind Fury and the Thunderbolts, each of us processing the uneasy alliance in our own way. Steve approaches me, his expression a blend of concern and determination. "We'll make it work," he assures me, but his voice carries an undertone of doubt that doesn't escape my notice. I glance at the closed door, imagining the myriad of scenarios that could unfold from this forced partnership. Turning to the rest of the team, I see varying degrees of reluctance and resolve. Wanda, ever the pragmatist despite her own reservations about the Thunderbolts, begins discussing potential strategies that leverage both teams' strengths. "If we're going to do this, we might as well do it right," she states firmly, pulling up data on her tablet, her fingers flicking through screens with swift, precise movements. Her ability to focus on the task at hand, pushing aside her personal feelings, is something I've always admired about her. Tony chimes in with his usual technical perspective, already brainstorming gadgets and tech that could help bridge the operational styles of our two very different teams. "Maybe some shared tech could smooth things over, and keep everyone on the same page," he suggests, tapping his chin thoughtfully with a stylus. His mind races through the possibilities, from communication links that could withstand CERBERUS's jamming techniques to surveillance drones that could offer us a bird' s-eye view without putting boots on the ground in hostile territory.
Natasha, meanwhile, remains quiet, observing everyone's reactions and making mental notes. I catch her eye, and she gives me a subtle nod, a silent agreement that we'll need to keep our guards up, both against CERBERUS and potentially within our own ranks. Her instincts for espionage and counterintelligence will be more crucial than ever in navigating this minefield of an alliance. As the meeting disperses, Karai and I linger behind, sharing a look of mutual skepticism. "You think this can actually work, or are we just spinning our wheels here?" she asks, her voice low. I shrug, my gaze drifting to the cityscape visible through the large windows of the briefing room. "It has to work," I reply, more to convince myself than her. "Zemo's not slowing down, and neither can we. If working with the Thunderbolts gives us an edge, then we'll have to endure it." Karai nods, her expression hardening with resolve, "Then let's keep them close. If they step out of line, we'll be there to rein them back in." Her words reinforce the unspoken rule we've always lived by: protect the mission and protect each other, no matter what.
[Training Area.] Both the Avengers and the Thunderbolts gather in the training area. As soon as the two teams are in, immediately there's hostility in the air. Namely from the X-Men members of the Avengers. "What the hell is this?!" Wolverine barks, glaring at Walker. In the X-Men/Mutants' eyes, the Thunderbolts as an offshoot of the Sentinels. Except they use metahumans to hunt other metahumans. I stand off to the side, arms crossed over my chest, as I watch the tension escalate in real-time. We're in one of the reinforced training arenas deep within Avengers HQ, a massive space designed to handle just about any superpowered clash, and right now, it feels like we might need every inch of that capacity. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting off the shiny metal walls and casting harsh shadows on everyone's faces. I notice how Logan's knuckles flex, a telltale sign that he's itching for a fight, and Walker—always one to match aggression with aggression—straightens his posture and clenches his jaw. Captain America steps in before things get out of hand, raising a calming hand in Wolverine's direction, but I see how tense Steve's shoulders are. Even he feels the friction radiating through the room. I shift my gaze to the rest of the Thunderbolts, each of them looking like they've got something to prove, their eyes scanning the X-Men warily. Karai stands a few feet away, arms folded and posture rigid, ready to intervene if a single punch is thrown. Meanwhile, Tony hovers near the training console, one palm resting on the control panel as if he might need to slam the shutdown sequence for the entire facility if this meeting goes sideways. The X-Men among us have their reasons for mistrusting any group that smacks of Sentinel origins—God knows they've dealt with enough anti-mutant campaigns to make paranoia their second nature. Still, we're here because Fury says we have to find common ground against CERBERUS. The thunderous silence from the rest of the group speaks volumes: no one wants to be the first to stand down.
I let my eyes wander to Fury, who stands in the center of it all with an expression that practically dares someone to disobey him. He's flanked by Maria Hill, who's already frowning at the tension. Fury clears his throat, the sound echoing off the walls, and everyone briefly glances in his direction, but the animosity simmers. Walker finally opens his mouth to speak, and I brace myself for whatever challenge or taunt he's about to unleash. Instead, he says, "We're here to coordinate training exercises, not rehash old grudges." His tone is firm but not outright hostile. It's a small concession, maybe an attempt at diplomacy. Wolverine's lips peel back in something between a snarl and a laugh. "Yeah, coordinate," he mutters, his voice dripping with skepticism. I remain silent, watching from the sidelines. I know better than to jump in without good reason—an ill-timed comment could turn this into a full-blown brawl, and we can't afford that. We're all under the same roof to sharpen our skills, exchange intel, and prepare for the battles ahead. But I can't help noticing how the Thunderbolts look at the X-Men, their eyes flickering with a mix of challenge and resentment. No doubt they're aware the mutants view them as potential enemies rather than allies. In some twisted way, they're both right; we're forced into alliance by circumstances, not by trust or a shared ideology.
Fury steps forward and starts laying out the day's training regimen, his voice echoing as he lists the joint exercises. He wants us to mix teams, swapping members of the Avengers, Thunderbolts, and X-Men into squads so we can learn each other's tactics, strengths, and weaknesses. My gut twists at the thought of Wolverine and Walker having to run drills together. The image of them trying to communicate under pressure is enough to make me cringe. Yet I understand the necessity; if we're going to operate effectively in the field, we need to work out our differences here, in a controlled environment, rather than in the chaos of actual combat. I glance at Rogue, who's standing just behind Logan. She looks uneasy, her gaze flicking to the Thunderbolts with equal parts caution and disdain. Beside her, Gambit sets his jaw, that trademark smirk nowhere to be found. Even a wisecracker like him knows this situation could blow up at any moment. Meanwhile, the Thunderbolts—particularly their heavy hitters—seem ready to prove that they can go toe to toe with any Avenger or X-Man who doubts them. They exude a sense of bravado that rubs me the wrong way. Everyone breaks into our assigned teams and disperses across the training arena, stepping onto separate platforms and stations.
We've been at the training session for nearly four whole hours, running multiple types of drills and scenarios. Hell, we even swapped squad members to see how we adopted working with different team members. That one was the hardest. Most of the X-Men didn't want to have anything to do with the Thunderbolts, temporary alliance or not. It got worse during the sparring session. Everyone was deliberately trying to hurt the other person. I stand off to the side for a moment, trying to catch my breath while watching the organized chaos unfold across the training arena. I can practically feel the sparks in the air from all the heated glares flying back and forth. The clang of metal on metal reverberates every time someone engages in a weapons drill, and I hear sharp grunts echo when fists connect with padding—or flesh. The friction between teams is so thick I swear it weighs down the air, making it harder to breathe. My muscles ache from the constant exertion, and sweat beads on my forehead, sliding down the side of my face in a slow trickle that reminds me how relentless this session has been. Yet I know it's necessary, because if we can't handle each other in here, there's no way we'll stand together on the battlefield.
I see Karai exchanging words with Rogue, both of them looking tense. Off to the left, I catch sight of Tony tinkering with a couple of combat drones, adjusting the settings so that the automated sparring opponents won't maim anyone if they get knocked off their parameters. Across the way, Wolverine and Walker are stationed together in what I can only describe as the most awkward pairing possible. They're in the middle of a joint simulation that requires them to protect each other's flank. I can tell by Logan's scowl that he'd rather be anywhere else, yet he grits his teeth and follows Fury's orders, perhaps because he understands the stakes. Walker, for his part, is determined to show that he and his Thunderbolts are every bit as capable as the Avengers, if not more so. His posture is rigid, and his expression is locked in a look that demands respect—or fear. Meanwhile, the X-Men who have been forced to collaborate with the Thunderbolts aren't thrilled about it. They mutter under their breath, some making no effort to hide their distrust. I overhear Gambit warning one of his teammates to watch her back as if the Thunderbolts might stab her in it the first chance they get.
Despite all this, Fury insists that blending our ranks is the only way to spot holes in our teamwork. He walks around the training platforms like a hawk, his single eye missing nothing. Occasionally, he barks out orders to rotate stations, prompting confused and reluctant fighters to switch partners. Every move we make is monitored by either him, Maria Hill, or one of the senior Avengers, ensuring that no one escalates the tension too far—or at least not far enough to do permanent damage. I find myself squared off against one of the Thunderbolts who looks like he stepped out of a heavyweight boxing ring. He's huge, with a glare that would make a normal soldier tremble, but I steel myself. Our fists connect, and I feel the reverberations travel up my arms. He doesn't hold back, clearly testing me, and I respond in kind, not to injure him, but to establish that I'm not someone he can dismiss. With each blow, I feel my muscles burn, reminding me that we've been pushing ourselves for hours. My mind flickers to Zemo and CERBERUS, to the reason why we're all here in the first place. This uneasy alliance might be the only way to gather enough strength to confront the growing threat. If we fail to unify now, we'll stand no chance against their resources and cunning. That thought keeps me going. I duck a punch, counter with a solid jab, then pivot away to avoid his follow-up. For all the hostility swirling around this room, part of me feels a flicker of hope that maybe, after enough sweat and bruises, we can learn to function as one. As I block another blow, I remind myself that our enemies won't care about our rivalries; they'll use every crack in our armor to bring us down. If we survive this training and don't kill each other in the process, we might just stand a chance.
Off to the side, most of my attention is on the sparring match between Wanda and the Thunderbolt's mage, Magi. At first, the two women seemed evenly matched, but I can tell Wanda is holding back. And it was frustrating Magi. From Magi's point of view, Wanda didn't see her as an equal, and that bruised her pride. As their duel progresses, the air around them crackles with magical energy, a visible manifestation of their burgeoning rivalry. Wanda, with a serene expression that belies the intensity of her focus, gestures gracefully, weaving intricate sigils in the air. Each motion of her hands pulls strands of red energy from the ether, crafting shields and counter-spells with practiced ease. Magi, on the other hand, adopts a more aggressive stance. Her spells are sharp and quick, like lightning strikes. She conjures bolts of blue energy that crackle and hiss as they slice through the air toward Wanda. But Wanda is always one step ahead, her barriers shimmering into existence just in time to absorb or deflect Magi's attacks. The ground beneath their feet is scorched with the remnants of powerful spells, a testament to the ferocity of their exchange. The other Avengers and Thunderbolts circle around, forming an impromptu arena, their eyes tracking every movement. Some are clearly rooting for Wanda, while others seem curious about Magi's capabilities, whispering amongst themselves about the potential outcome. Despite the casual bets and comments, I sense an underlying tension, a collective breath held as each spell is cast.
Magi, growing increasingly frustrated by her inability to land a hit, ramps up her efforts. Her next spell is a complex concoction of energy and force, a twisting vortex that howls as it barrels toward Wanda. It's a dangerous gambit that would leave many lesser mages drained, but Magi casts it with desperate fury. Wanda's eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, she appears to be in a tight spot. However, with a fluid motion and a whispered incantation, she not only dissipates the vortex but also manages to reverse the flow of energy. Using the momentum of Magi's own spell against her, Wanda crafts her counterattack. Her hands move faster, blurring with speed as she channels her power into a spell of her own. The air thickens, shimmering with the heat of raw magical energy. Wanda's spell materializes as a magnificent phoenix of scarlet flames, its wings spread wide, a spectacle of awe and power. It swoops towards Magi, who scrambles to erect a shield. The phoenix collides with the barrier with a thunderous impact that echoes through the training area, the force of the collision causing Magi to stumble back several steps. For a tense moment, it seems that Magi might regain her footing and continue the duel, but the look in her eyes betrays her exhaustion. Wanda, still calm, gives Magi a small, respectful nod, an acknowledgment of her effort and skill. Recognizing the gesture and the futility of continuing, Magi lowers her hands, her energy spent, her defenses shattered. With a defeated sigh, she concedes, nodding back to Wanda in reluctant respect.
Suddenly someone, likely Tony, called for a sparring between Steve Rogers and John Walker. There was no objection. And if I'm being honest, I wouldn't mind seeing Cap knock that tool on his ass. Going for it, the two men step into the sparring ring. I immediately feel the tension in the air ratchet up several notches, like a coiled spring ready to snap. The entire training area quiets down as people gather around, forming a wide circle to witness this showdown. Steve stands tall, shoulders squared, wearing that calm, resolute look I've come to recognize as the hallmark of Captain America. Across from him, Walker is a tightly wound coil of energy, his posture rigid, jaw clenched, and fists already curled at his sides. I can see the swirl of conflicting emotions flickers across the faces of the onlookers: some anticipate an exciting match between two super-soldiers, while others sense this could get out of hand if either man lets his pride take over. The moment Fury gives a curt nod, Steve and Walker begin to circle each other, their footsteps echoing on the matted floor in a rhythmic pattern that reminds me of two predators testing each other's boundaries. Steve moves first, testing Walker's reflexes with a sharp jab that Walker deflects easily. The impact of their arms colliding is loud, drawing a few murmurs from the spectators. They trade a series of lightning-fast punches and blocks, each of them gauging the other's style and searching for the slightest weakness. Steve maintains a disciplined stance, feet planted firmly, while Walker moves with more aggression, almost daring Steve to push him harder. From my vantage point, I can tell Steve respects Walker's capabilities but remains wary of Walker's temper. Walker, meanwhile, carries an undercurrent of resentment beneath his concentrated gaze. Perhaps he wants to prove that he is every bit the man Steve is—and maybe more.
They briefly lock arms in a clinch, their muscles straining, eyes locked in silent challenge. The sheer power both men possess is clear in the way the mats creak under their boots, as though the floor itself struggles to contain the force of their confrontation. Steve shifts his weight and breaks away, delivering a low kick aimed at Walker's thigh. Walker counters with a swift elbow strike toward Steve's torso. Steve pivots gracefully, and the elbow merely grazes his side. I catch the flicker of a smirk on Walker's face; he knows he's close to landing a solid hit. Steve, however, remains calm. He squares up again, his breathing controlled, as though reminding himself of the discipline he's cultivated over countless missions. Suddenly, Walker surges forward in a burst of speed, feinting left before attempting a powerful right hook. Steve raises his forearm just in time, blocking the punch with a sharp crack. The force reverberates through the room. Without missing a beat, Steve counters with a textbook uppercut that Walker narrowly avoids. The crowd shifts, and I hear Karai let out a soft gasp when Walker manages to slip beneath Steve's guard and hook an arm around Steve's waist. For a split second, it looks like Walker might slam Steve onto the mat, but Steve deftly steps around, wrenching free with a subtle twist of his hips. A flurry of exchanged blows follows—knees, elbows, and quick jabs that showcase both men's training and natural athleticism.
Their breathing grows heavier, yet neither gives an inch. Steve's expression remains focused, while Walker's eyes burn with fierce determination. An errant blow from Walker glances across Steve's chin, drawing a small trickle of blood, and the onlookers collectively tense. Tony, from the sidelines, murmurs something into his communicator, probably prepared to shut this down if it escalates. Steve, unshaken, takes a step back, wiping the blood away with the back of his hand. I see a flicker of mutual respect pass between them, but neither seems willing to back down. They close in once more, exchanging fierce strikes that push both men to their limits. Steve manages a lightning-quick combination that rattles Walker, who nearly drops to a knee but recovers with remarkable resilience. Walker retaliates with a rush that forces Steve on the defensive, and for a moment, it appears Walker might overpower him. However, Steve spins out of Walker's line of attack, planting a precise kick that sends Walker stumbling. Both combatants pause, breathing hard, sweat glistening on their brows. I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears as the two super-soldiers stare each other down, each refusing to concede. Sensing the stalemate, Fury raises a hand and calls the match. A wave of chatter ripples through the crowd, some disappointed they didn't get a definitive victor, others relieved it didn't end with broken bones or worse. Steve and Walker remain still for a moment, eyes locked in mutual acknowledgment of how close that fight was. Then, as though carried by the same unspoken cue, they step away from each other, their breathing slowly returning to normal. The sparring ends in a draw.
[Wanda's Room.] As the day draws to a close, Wanda and I make our way to her room. The first thing Wanda does is check on little Jericho, who's asleep in his crib. Ahab stands next to the crib like a guard dog. After settling in, the two of us confabulate about today's events. Wanda's room, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of our lives, reflects her essence—parts of it vibrant with rich, colorful drapes and parts serene, dominated by soft, calming shades. As she tiptoes to Jericho's crib, her movements are gentle, careful not to disturb the soft rhythmic breathing of our son sleeping soundly. Ahab, her faithful wolfdog, eyes me briefly as I enter but then resumes his vigilant watch over Jericho. I can't help but smile at the sight, feeling a mixture of pride and relief that despite the world outside, here in this room, there is peace. Wanda, after ensuring Jericho is comfortably swaddled and sound asleep, turns to me with a sigh. Her face carries the fatigue of the day but also a softness that she reserves for these quiet moments away from everyone else. We sink into the comfortable chairs by her reading nook, a corner filled with books on magic, history, and some science fiction, reflecting her eclectic tastes.
"So, how do you think it went today?" she asks, her voice low, almost blending with the soft hum of the air conditioner. I ponder for a moment, my mind replaying the day's intense training sessions, the sparring matches, and the palpable tension between the teams. "It was rough, but necessary," I reply, trying to be as honest as I can without sounding too pessimistic, "Seeing Steve and Walker go at it like that... it reminded me of just how volatile things can get. But I think it was a good reality check for everyone." Wanda nods, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the edge of her sleeve, "Yes, it was unsettling, but I was impressed with how everyone managed to keep it together—mostly. It's these high-stress situations that really show us where we stand, not just as a team but also as individuals." We fall into a thoughtful silence, each lost in our reflections of the day. I glance over at Jericho, his chest rising and falling in peaceful slumber. Wanda reaches over, taking my hand in hers, her grip firm yet comforting.
Our conversation shifts to more practical matters, discussing strategies and improvements we could suggest for the next training session. Wanda's insights into team dynamics and individual strengths are invaluable, and I make mental notes of her suggestions about integrating magic and technology more seamlessly. Eventually, our discussion winds down, and we spend a few moments just enjoying the silence, the kind of comfortable quiet that you can only share with someone you truly trust. Wanda yawns, and I chuckle softly, standing to stretch my legs. "I should let you get some rest," I say, reluctant to end our quiet time together but knowing she needs her sleep. She smiles up at me, a weary but genuine smile, "Thanks, love. For everything." I lean down to kiss her forehead, then glance once more at Jericho. "Night, Wanda. Let me know if you need anything." "Always," she replies, her voice soft.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Steve's Room.] Out of habit, I decided to go through the dossier of every member of the Thunderbolts, starting with John Walker. I'm seated at my desk, the dim light from the lamp casting shadows across the files spread out in front of me. It's late, but I know that understanding who I'm working with is crucial, especially when it comes to a group as volatile as the Thunderbolts. Each file is thick with reports, mission logs, and psychological evaluations. I start with Walker, his familiar stern face looking back at me from the photograph clipped to the front of his file. John Walker, US Agent. A decorated war hero with a complex history. His file details a man driven by a strong moral code yet often at odds with his own methods. I respect his skills and his dedication, but his aggressive approach can be unpredictable. Next, I flip to Benjamin Poindexter, known as Bullseye. A master marksman with an uncanny ability to use almost anything as a lethal projectile. His psychological profile suggests a deep-seated instability and a penchant for violence. I make a mental note of the need for constant surveillance when he's involved in operations.
Anthony Masters, or Taskmaster, has the ability to mimic the physical movements of anyone he observes, making him a formidable opponent and a valuable asset. His file, however, hints at a mercenary nature, loyalty dictated by the highest bidder. Trusting him in the field will require a careful balance of oversight and autonomy. James Ruiz, who goes by Prototype, is a newer addition. His suit gives him capabilities similar to Tony's in terms of strength and resilience, but he lacks experience. His enthusiasm to prove himself is evident in the notes from his handlers, which could be both a strength and a liability. Raven Shaw, or Magi, caught my attention next. Her expertise in mystical arts provides the team with a crucial counterbalance to technological and physical threats. Her file suggests she's more reserved and thoughtful in her approach than some of her teammates, potentially making her a reliable intermediary.
Cain Marko, known universally as Juggernaut, brings sheer physical power that is nearly unmatched. His file is a litany of battles that paint a picture of a man who is virtually unstoppable once in motion. The challenge with him doesn't lie in capability but in direction and restraint. Lastly, Francine Frye, the current Electro, possesses electrifying powers that make her extremely dangerous. The notes in her dossier speak to a recent acquisition of her abilities and a volatile adjustment period. Her control is still a work in progress, which makes her unpredictable in stressful situations.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. Working with the Thunderbolts is going to be a significant challenge. I understand Fury's reasoning—each member brings something unique to the table, making the team a potent force against formidable threats. However, the mix of volatile personalities and lethal abilities requires a level of management and foresight that can be exhausting even to contemplate. Despite my reservations, I know that collaboration is essential. We are, after all, on the same side, fighting against common threats that would see the world in chaos. Building trust will not be easy, nor will it be quick, but it is necessary. I'm willing to work with them because I must, but my trust will have to be earned, just as I will strive to earn theirs. I make a few notes in my journal—thoughts on leadership approaches, potential team dynamics, and contingency plans. These notes might be crucial in the days to come as we navigate this uneasy alliance. As a leader, I must remain vigilant and always prepared to protect not only the world but also the team from internal and external threats. With a deep breath, I close the last file. Tomorrow, I'll meet with Fury to discuss these assessments. Tonight, though, I try to rest, knowing full well that in this line of duty, any day could demand everything we have.
[Fogwell's Gym, New York City]
Much as I try, I can't get any sleep tonight, so I decided to take a walk through the quiet streets of New York, hoping that the cool evening air would clear my head. I pass by dimly lit storefronts and a handful of late-night diners, the soft hum of traffic and the distant rumble of the subway serving as a gentle reminder that this city never truly stops. Eventually, my wandering leads me to a familiar place—Fogwell's Gym, an establishment with a storied history in boxing circles. It's only eight in the evening, so I'm not entirely surprised that the lights are still on, but the exterior looks like it's undergoing some sort of renovation. Wooden boards, scaffolding, and fresh layers of paint suggest someone is investing time and money to revive this old gem. My curiosity is piqued, so I push open the heavy door, stepping inside to the unmistakable scent of stale sweat, leather, and disinfectant. The overhead lights buzz faintly, and I hear the distant rhythm of fists pounding against a punching bag. At first, I imagined it might just be a lone boxer burning off extra energy or training for an upcoming match. Then I catch a glimpse of a figure whose stance I recognize immediately—even though we haven't seen each other in a while. It's Bucky Barnes, wearing a simple gray hoodie and basketball shorts, his metal arm glinting under the fluorescent bulbs. We haven't crossed paths since he was released from SHIELD's psychiatric center, and despite my invitation for him to stay at Avengers HQ, he decided he needed time away, a chance to rediscover himself and find his own place in the world. Seeing him now, pounding away at the bag with single-minded focus, tugs at something deep in me. I step forward cautiously, not wanting to startle him. The squeak of my boots on the old linoleum floor must give me away, though, because he pauses mid-strike, the heavy bag still swaying from the force of his last punch, and turns to face me. His eyes are shadowed but alert, and for a split second, I see a flicker of tension flash across his features as though he's not entirely ready for company. Then recognition dawns, and he offers a small, tentative nod. I return the gesture, feeling an odd mix of relief and uncertainty, unsure of how he'll respond to my unannounced presence.
"Hey, Buck," I say softly, letting the sound of my voice fill the space between us. His breath comes in ragged bursts from the exertion, and I can tell he's been at this for a while. There are faint smudges of sweat along his brow, and the muscles in his arms flex with a residual tremor. He simply nods again, turning briefly to the bag as if deciding whether to continue his set or to acknowledge me fully. Slowly, he steps back and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Steve," he finally responds, his tone guarded yet not unfriendly. It's more than just exhaustion I sense in his voice; it's that mixture of residual wariness and self-imposed isolation I've come to recognize in him over since he reemerged as the Winter Soldier. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The distant hum of the lights and the echo of old fights seem to fill the room as though the gym itself holds its breath, waiting to see how we'll bridge this gap. I take another step forward, scanning the surroundings. There's an old poster on one wall advertising a boxing tournament from decades ago, the corners peeling and faded. The ring in the center of the gym is roped off, presumably awaiting repairs. A few benches line the far wall, stacked with half-unpacked boxes of new equipment. Renovations indeed. I take in the sight of Bucky's gloved hands, noticing the fresh nicks on his knuckles. "Couldn't sleep, so I went for a walk," I say, my voice echoing slightly, "Didn't expect to find you here."
He shrugs, removing one glove to reveal his metal fingers. "I've been coming here off and on," he admits quietly, "Helps clear my head. They're renovating, but the owner still lets a few folks train if they want to. Guess she's trying to keep the spirit of the place alive." I nod, understanding perfectly, recalling how many fighters got their start here, how many nights I spent in a place just like this decades ago. I rest my hand gently on the punching bag, feeling the residual warmth of Bucky's strikes. "Mind if I join you for a bit?" I ask, unsure if he wants company or solitude. He hesitates, then looks me in the eye. I see the conflict there—he's still wrestling with his past, still trying to find solid footing after everything he's done, everything he's endured. But something shifts in his expression, a subtle acceptance that maybe this is okay. "Sure," he says at last, "I could use the company." I can't help but smile, stepping beside him and securing the bag so he can remove his other glove. There's a sense of fragile camaraderie between us, two soldiers out of time in different ways, trying to reconcile who we were with who we want to be. "It's good to see you, Buck," I say gently, and I mean it. The city outside is quiet, but within these walls, I feel a glimmer of hope that maybe this is a step toward normalcy—for both of us. We stand in companionable silence for a moment, letting the hum of the fluorescent lights and the subdued ambiance of this old boxing gym surround us like a warm blanket. He nods, still guarded but not alone.
Bucky and I stand there in companionable silence for a moment, the neon glow of the street lamps filtering in through the gym's dusty windows. I'm struck by the mixture of the familiar and the unknown in him—so much of the friend I once knew remains, yet there are scars and ghosts beneath the surface that he carries alone. We both seem uncertain about how to bridge that gap. Eventually, he lifts his chin and offers me a tight but sincere smile. "You want to do a few rounds?" he asks, gesturing to the row of old gloves hung along the wall. His voice is subdued like he's half expecting me to say no. I nod. "Sure. I could use the workout." We head to the side of the ring where the equipment is stored. The gloves are mismatched, some worn down to the padding, and a few new pairs are still wrapped in plastic. Renovation or not, Fogwell's has never been fancy. I fish out a pair that looks like it'll fit me while Bucky retrieves a water bottle he left on a bench. The drip of a leaky pipe resonates somewhere in the background, and the gym's ventilation system rattles softly overhead, underscoring the stillness of the evening. Once I've slipped the gloves on, I hop into the ring, carefully navigating around a couple of loose floorboards that are in desperate need of repair. Bucky follows suit, rolling his shoulders to loosen up as he slides between the ropes. Our eyes meet, and for a heartbeat, there's a flicker of the old camaraderie we once had. Memories of sparring sessions back in the '40s come rushing back—times when we were both just soldiers fighting a war, we believed we could end with our own two hands.
Bucky raises his fists first, his stance balanced, but I notice he's favoring his left leg slightly. Another remnant of the battles he's fought. I bring my hands up as well, turning my body at a slight angle and focusing on my breathing. We circle each other, the aged boards creaking beneath our combined weight. Our first few jabs are light, more about finding a rhythm than testing each other's limits. "You been okay?" I ask quietly, slipping a glove forward in a quick jab that Bucky deflects with ease. He exhales sharply, bobbing his head in a half-nod as he counters with a low strike, "Been better, but I'm managing. Trying to keep a low profile. Feels like the right thing for now." We exchange another flurry of hits—nothing too aggressive, just enough to feel each other out. I can't help noticing that he moves a little differently than he did during our last real fight, the one that nearly tore us both apart. There's a hesitation in his posture, as though he's afraid to unleash too much force. I get the sense he's wary of losing control, even in a simple sparring session. "Still staying in that walk-up down in Red Hook?" I ask, recalling the brief update Sam gave me a while back.
Bucky nods, then ducks under my hook, "Yeah. It's not bad, just a small place. Kind of like it, though—nobody bothers me." He attempts a jab that I deflect with my forearm, feeling the impact rattle through my bones. He's still strong—stronger than he gives himself credit for, maybe. We keep at it for a few more minutes, beads of sweat forming on our brows. The tension in my shoulders starts to ease, replaced by the familiar burn of muscles in motion. There's a kind of therapy in this ritual; each blows a punctuation mark in a conversation we've been having without words for months. After a particularly solid strike on my part, glances across his side, he steps back, lifting a gloved hand to pause. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. "You've gotten faster, Steve," he says, managing a half-smile. I shrug, "I've had some practice. Fury's got us training nonstop. New threats every day, you know how it is." Bucky's gaze flickers briefly, a shadow crossing his eyes as he nods. I realize that talk of missions and threats must stir up complicated feelings for him—after all, he's still walking the fine line between wanting to help and needing to regain his own sense of self. Part of me wants to recruit him back into the fold, to make him see that he has a place with us. But another part recognizes that forcing him would only push him further away.
"We could use you," I say softly, lowering my gloves, "But I understand if you're not ready. No pressure, Buck." He takes a moment to remove one glove, revealing the metal fingers beneath. "I've been thinking about it," he admits, his gaze drifting to the battered ropes of the ring, "Not sure if diving right in is the best move, but I don't want to keep running forever." I step closer, extending a gloved hand to rest gently against his shoulder. "Whenever you decide, You have my full support," I assure him. Bucky meets my eyes and offers a hesitant yet genuine smile. The weight on his shoulders is still there, but for this moment, it seems lighter. "Thanks, Steve," he says, just above a whisper.
[Zemo POV]
[CERBERUS HQ, New York City]
[Lab.] I stand with my hands clasped behind my back, gazing at the faint glow emanating from the containment unit in front of me. The mythical stone marble, no larger than a child's toy, sits on a raised pedestal behind layers of reinforced glass and steel, yet it radiates an unmistakable aura of power that even Tarleton, with his insatiable scientific curiosity, cannot fully comprehend. He paces around the unit, adjusting scanners and taking readings, occasionally throwing me a glance that flickers between awe and trepidation. I notice the faint tremor in his hands and the subtle hitch in his breath whenever the instruments spike, and I feel a grim satisfaction settle within me; fear is a powerful motivator, but so is curiosity. I allow him to conduct his studies, not merely because his insights might prove useful but also because I find a certain amusement in watching a brilliant mind grapple with something that defies conventional logic. His voice trembles slightly when he finally speaks, "I can't believe how much energy is pouring off this thing. Where did you find it?" He looks at me with a mixture of expectancy and unease, as though suspecting that my answer will invite more questions than resolutions. I tilt my head, letting a faint smile play on my lips. "In my long life I have seen many things that defy imagination," I reply cryptically, my voice echoing with a calm conviction that offers him no immediate comfort. Tarleton narrows his eyes, clearly dissatisfied with my evasive statement, but he does not press the issue. Instead, he returns to his machines, muttering half-formed theories and possible avenues of research. The air in this subterranean chamber feels charged, as though the stone itself pulses with untold potential just waiting to be unleashed. Rows of data scroll across monitors arranged on sleek metal tables, and the humming of hidden generators provides a low, throbbing soundtrack to this peculiar symphony of science and mysticism. I glance around at the emblem of CERBERUS emblazoned on the walls, recalling how far we have come since I first set my sights on New York's underworld. Each step of this path has been paved with careful planning, alliances of convenience, and an unwavering drive to claim the power that so many others fear.
I place a gloved hand on the containment unit, feeling the faint vibration that resonates through the tempered glass. Tarleton glances up briefly, clearly wanting to caution me against any reckless contact, but he says nothing. Perhaps he senses that my relationship with this artifact runs deeper than scientific curiosity alone. He must wonder why I am so certain of its capabilities but also why I hold back, preferring methodical study over reckless experimentation. For me, the key to harnessing such power lies in knowledge and control, and I will not let hubris spoil the potential that lies within this tiny, unassuming stone. As I withdraw my hand, I catch my reflection in the polished surface of the unit's casing. My eyes seem older than my face, marked by the weight of countless plans and schemes that have shaped my life. A certain satisfaction blooms within me, for I stand on the cusp of an era where those who dare to dream beyond mortal boundaries can reshape the world. Let the Avengers and their allies concern themselves with petty moral squabbles; I have transcended such limitations. Tarleton might not share my vision, but he is a useful tool, and one day he will thank me for granting him the chance to witness wonders beyond his wildest predictions. I turn toward him, watching the way he runs his fingers over the console, scanning lines of code and adjusting the containment field. The tension in the room has settled into an uneasy hush. I allow myself a final glance at the marble, its faint glow dancing in my peripheral vision, and then I speak once more, my tone a low murmur that resonates in the stillness. "Keep studying it, Tarleton. We have only scratched the surface of what it can do." My words hang in the stale air, a directive and a warning wrapped into one, as I step away.