Chapter 99:
[McDougal POV]
[Detroit]
I managed to give the slip to the pursuing Avengers. Admittedly, it was a close call. They're a lot more skilled than I give them credit for, especially the 40s super soldier, Captain America. Once cleared, I head off to check on the other runes. So far, they haven't been disturbed. Perfect. But as I move through the shadowy streets towards the next hidden rune, a prickling sensation raises the hairs on the back of my neck. Instinctively, I slow my pace, my senses sharpening. The city's ambient noises fade into the background, and my heartbeat thumps loudly in my ears as I slowly turn around to face whoever, or whatever, is stalking me. For a tense moment, I see nothing but the empty street and the flickering lights of a distant streetlamp. But then, I catch it—a slight distortion in the air, like heat waves on asphalt, but it's too cold for that. The distortion sharpens, and suddenly, the cloaking device deactivates, revealing a woman clad in tactical gear. The uniform is unmistakable—black and grey, with the menacing logo of CERBERUS emblazoned on her chest. I immediately recognize her. Skeith, CERBERUS's elite enforcer. "Another dog with the military to hunt me down?" I bark out, my tone is derisive, trying to mask the spike of adrenaline that her presence causes. "Bitch, I'm a Wolf. Not a dog," she shoots back instantly, her voice icy and calm, completely unbothered by the danger of our confrontation.
Her response is sharp, but I have no time to ponder her words. Skeith moves with lethal precision, closing the distance between us faster than I anticipated. Her hand reaches behind her back, drawing a compact, high-tech firearm. I react purely on instinct, summoning moisture from the air around us, my powers reacting to my desperate focus. Ice forms rapidly under her feet, but she anticipates this move, her boots equipped with spikes that grip the ice effortlessly. She fires a series of shots, each one narrowly missing as I dodge, my body fueled by a rush of survival instinct. I return the favor with a sharp gesture, sending a spear of ice hurtling towards her. Skeith rolls to the side, her movements fluid and practiced, and the ice shatters against the brick wall behind where she had just been. The chase is on. I bolt down the alley, my breaths coming in sharp gasps, the cold air biting at my throat. Skeith is relentless, her pursuit dogged and determined. I create barriers of ice behind me as I run, hoping to slow her down, but she either smashes through them with precise shots or agilely maneuvers around them.
Turning a corner, I lead us into a narrow passage between two old warehouses, the ground slick with old rainwater. Here, I try a different tactic. I rapidly heat the air around her, creating a sudden updraft. Skeith stumbles slightly, caught off-guard by the unexpected change in temperature, her cloaking device flickering from the thermal interference. This buys me a crucial few seconds. I sprint with renewed energy, my legs pumping, my lungs burning. I can hear her behind me, her footsteps a constant echo in the otherwise silent night. But as I glance back, I see her slowing down, her gun lowering slightly. It's deliberate—she's letting me go. Perhaps CERBERUS wants me free for reasons I can't fathom, or maybe she's received new orders. As I put distance between us, the realization that I'm still a pawn in someone else's game gnaws at me. But for now, survival is paramount. I focus on the dark streets ahead, knowing this reprieve might be temporary and the game far from over. Skeith's parting words echo in my mind, a chilling reminder of the forces at play, "Run all you want, McDougal. We'll catch up with you sooner or later."
[Spartan POV]
[SHIELD HQ, Detroit]
"Intel got it wrong with McDougal's metahuman ability. He's not a cryomancer. The man is a water manipulator," I say to the SHIELD commander with an agitated tone. Obtaining the wrong information is a surefire way of getting someone on your team killed, and I don't take that kind of negligence lightly. I stand in front of the commander, tension coiling in my shoulders as I recall the havoc McDougal unleashed. The difference between a cryomancer and a full-fledged hydrokinetic may seem minor to someone reading a file in a comfortable office chair, but on the battlefield, that distinction can mean the difference between life and death. A water manipulator can do more than just freeze or thaw—the possibilities for shaping, moving, and heating moisture are limitless. During our last encounter, McDougal demonstrated his ability to pull moisture from the air, turning it into both solid ice spears and scorching steam with frightening ease. If he refines his technique further, he could literally rip the fluids from someone's body, killing them with a mere gesture. I glance at the tactical screens flickering behind the commander, each display showing real-time footage of Detroit's streets, where SHIELD agents and Avengers alike are scrambling to locate McDougal before he completes whatever ritual he's concocting. The thought of him roaming free, armed with powers that could twist water itself to his will, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. "Depending on your level of skill, water benders are extremely dangerous in their own rights," I continue, my voice tight with frustration. A wave of tension radiates through the room as my statement sinks in—everyone here understands the implications of a hydrokinetic who shows no remorse, especially one capable of combining freezing, boiling, and even the potential for blood manipulation in a single, devastating package. The commander nods, though I can tell from the look in his eyes that he's barely grasping the ramifications of this intel screw-up. I push down the urge to vent my anger further; right now, channeling that emotion into an actionable strategy is more important than pointing fingers. "We need updated profiles circulated to every squad on the ground," I say, forcing composure into my voice. "They have to know exactly what they're dealing with—no more misinformation. If we don't move fast, we're looking at a citywide crisis. McDougal's proven he's ready and willing to kill anyone who crosses his path." My gaze flits to the side, catching Sam and Wanda in quiet discussion. They, too, are preparing for another direct confrontation. I exhale slowly, steadying myself. We have a mission: contain McDougal's threat before it escalates to an unimaginable scale. But I can't shake the uneasy feeling that we've only seen a fraction of what he's truly capable of and that underestimating him again could cost us far more than a few injuries.
[McDougal POV]
[Black Site Prison, Detroit]
"HA HA HA! You're a riot, McDougal. You really think I care about exposing the US government's dirty little secret. We knew exactly what we signed up for. It's called black op for a reason. We follow orders no matter what it is and never ask questions," the man says from behind his cell. I tighten my jaw, my fists clenching involuntarily at my sides as Griffin's words echo through the stark, cold hallway of the black site prison. The fluorescent lights flicker above, casting long shadows that seem to dance along the damp concrete floor. "Griffin, you know what they made us do. The blood we spilled following their orders," I shoot back, my voice low and strained with a cocktail of anger and regret. The memories of those operations, the ones that haunt my dreams, flash before my eyes—villages wiped off the map, innocent lives taken in the name of national security. The weight of each death I was responsible for felt like a chain around my neck, growing heavier with each passing day. Griffin laughs, a hollow, humorless sound that reverberates off the walls, chilling me more than the damp air of the prison. "You say that crap now, but you didn't seem so bothered by it at the time. Hell, you enjoyed it. Practically got off on it." His words cut deep, a stark reminder of the man I once was, a man I no longer recognize. I stare at him, the man I used to call a brother in arms, now just another ghost from my past.
"Anyway, I'm not interested in joining your crusade of justice. Got a feeling you won't last long anyway. Not only did you have the Avengers on your ass, you got CERBERUS on the hunt for you. And Zemo is not the type of person you want to cross. And right now, you're on his radar," he adds, leaning back against the cold metal of his cell, a smirk playing on his lips. I take a step closer, my gaze hardening. "Then you're a fool, Griffin. You think you're safe here, that they won't come for you next? We're all expendable to them!" I spit out the words, each syllable tainted with bitterness. Griffin's smirk fades slightly, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty that he quickly masks by looking away. My hands clench and unclench as I consider his words about Zemo and CERBERUS. He's right—I'm in deep waters, hunted not just by my past but by powerful forces that don't forgive or forget. The mention of Zemo sends a shiver down my spine. Crossing a man like that is akin to signing your own death warrant, and yet, here I am, marked by his ire. I turn away from Griffin, my mind racing with the implications of my situation. The Avengers, CERBERUS, Zemo—they all represent threads in a web I've become entangled in, each one capable of yanking hard enough to bring about my end. As I walk away, Griffin's mocking laughter follows me, but it's the weight of his words that feels more oppressive. I need a plan, and fast. Allies are few and far between, and if I'm going to survive this, I need to be smarter, faster, and more ruthless than all of them. The corridors of the black site echo with my footsteps as I make my way out. It's a chess game with the highest stakes, and I'm a king dangerously close to checkmate.
[Spartan POV]
[1 Day Later, SHIELD HQ, Detroit]
We got word that McDougal broke into a black site prison, trying to recruit another individual to his cause—a man named Griffin. The news doesn't surprise me anymore; at this point, I'm starting to think McDougal will stop at nothing to build his twisted dream team, one lost soul at a time. When the report first comes through, I feel a familiar knot of tension coil in my gut, the kind that warns me we're dealing with someone who's not only bold but also desperate. The realization hits me that this prison break is just another step in McDougal's master plan, another move on the board that we're still scrambling to keep up with. We immediately send a squad to question Griffin, hoping he can shed light on McDougal's next move or at least confirm the details of their conversation. But the interrogation yields little: Griffin seems determined to withhold whatever scraps of intel he possesses, offering only cryptic warnings about how we're not the only ones gunning for McDougal. I catch the look on Cap's face when the briefing wraps up—grim resolve mingled with frustration—and I feel it mirrored in my own expression. The notion that other players are in the hunt complicates matters. Zemo and CERBERUS loom in the background of my thoughts, each with their own agenda, each capable of cutting us off at the knees if they decide it serves their interests. The hum of SHIELD HQ around me—agents rushing from station to station, monitors flashing with updated logs of our citywide search—only intensifies the urgency. We don't have the luxury of time to sit idle. McDougal's out there gathering resources and forging alliances, and I can't shake the feeling that every step he takes brings him closer to unleashing the summoning spell.
I stroll over to Wanda, who's sitting at a desk alone, her brow furrowed in concentration as she pours over ancient tomes spread haphazardly across the polished surface. The hushed murmur of her voice catches my attention before I'm close enough to distinguish any words, and I pause for a moment, observing how she lightly taps her fingers against a page filled with cryptic symbols. As I move nearer, I hear her speak in a low tone, almost a whisper. "The Philosopher's Stone," she murmurs, and my heart twinges with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. I know of the Philosopher's Stone—who doesn't, really? There are countless legends surrounding that fabled artifact, tales passed down through centuries about its unimaginable power. Some accounts claim it grants its wielder immortality; others say it can transmute base metals into pure gold. The most common one, at least in modern circles, is that it can grant any wish the user desires but at a dangerously high price. I take a seat beside her, the wooden chair creaking under my weight, and glance at the dusty text in her hands. The pages are yellowed with age, covered in cramped handwriting and arcane sketches that seem to swirl across the paper of their own accord. Wanda exhales a slow breath, acknowledging my presence with a brief nod. "Auron mentioned the Philosopher's Stone might be what McDougal is after," she says, carefully turning a page. Her eyes flick up to mine, the apprehension reflected there echoing my own uneasy thoughts. I recall the conversation with Auron—the sense of urgency in his voice when he confirmed that the runes McDougal is placing could indeed be part of a larger ritual, one designed to draw forth something akin to the Philosopher's Stone from another realm. The knowledge sends a chill creeping up my spine. If McDougal gets his hands on a real version of this mythical artifact, the consequences could be catastrophic for all of us. Wanda flips another page, revealing sketches of geometric patterns and cryptic summoning circles. I lean in, scanning the text for anything I can recognize or connect to the runes we've seen. My mind replays the carnage McDougal has already caused—his willingness to kill without mercy, his evolving water manipulation powers, and now the possibility of him wielding an object that grants unimaginable power. "Any wish he wants," I say, echoing the old stories, "with a cost that usually spirals out of control." Wanda nods solemnly. She explains that many of these legends warn the Stone's user about the inherent corruption that accompanies limitless power. Some accounts claim a user's soul could be lost, while others tell of civilizations destroyed by the unstoppable greed it inevitably awakens. It's a sobering thought and one that underscores just how grave this situation is. We already have McDougal on the loose with lethal abilities and a vendetta.
For some reason, McDougal doesn't strike me as the type of man who knows a lot about magic. Maybe the very basics but nothing more, like an individual who came across an instruction manual in a different language and is going off by the illustrations. As I lean back in my chair, arms crossed over my chest, I ponder this incongruity that hangs around McDougal like a cloud. My instincts tell me that his sudden dive into arcane practices isn't born from a lifelong study or a natural affinity but rather from necessity or, possibly, desperation. I can imagine him, perhaps, stumbling upon an old, dust-covered tome in some forgotten library of the world or being given cryptic instructions from a now-lost mysterious contact. He's not the scholarly type; his background as a SEAL speaks to a man of action rather than contemplation, someone who's used to following orders, not arcane scripts. The idea of him trying to piece together ancient rituals from fragments of knowledge, figuring it out as he goes, feels more in line with the man I know—a man who adapts, improvises, and overcomes. I picture McDougal, brows furrowed, poring over texts filled with dense, esoteric language, trying to decipher the words like one might try to read a wiring diagram without any prior electrical knowledge. He's not the type to understand the subtle energies of the universe, the delicate balance of magic that seasoned practitioners spend lifetimes learning to manipulate. Instead, he's more like someone who's found a powerful tool—a grenade with the pin already pulled—and is fumbling with it, unaware of how to actually wield it safely or effectively.
This mental image of McDougal paints a picture of a man dangerously out of his depth. His approach to magic must be rudimentary, guided more by brute force than finesse. He knows it can produce effects, maybe even spectacular ones, but he lacks a deep understanding of how or why it works. It's like using a sledgehammer where a scalpel is required, and it's this recklessness that makes him even more dangerous. He's not bound by the usual precautions a trained mage might observe, and his ignorance could lead to catastrophic outcomes, not just for him but for everyone caught in the collateral damage. My musings lead me to consider the broader implications of his actions. If McDougal is attempting to summon something as powerful and potentially devastating as the Philosopher's Stone with only a layman's grasp of arcane principles, what disasters might he unwittingly unleash? The scenarios that play out in my head are not reassuring. I imagine chaotic bursts of uncontrolled magic, ripples of destabilizing energy tearing through the fabric of our reality. Each potential mishap adds weight to the urgency of stopping him.
[Detroit]
[Rooftop.] At that moment, EPYON tags McDougal's exact location. Wasting no time, the entire team bursts out the door, Cap leading the charge with a single, authoritative gesture that tells us all to keep pace. We sprint up the fire escape and across adjoining rooftops, our hearts pounding in unison as we follow the waypoint blinking insistently on our HUDs. Finally, we find McDougal perched on a rooftop at the very heart of the city, his posture upright and resolute as if he's been expecting us all along. "It's over, McDougal!" Cap yells, his voice echoing across the concrete skyline. McDougal, standing in the soft glow of the city lights, gives a slow shake of his head. "Indeed it is over, Captain," he replies, his tone cool yet charged with conviction. My gaze flickers down, and that's when I see the painstakingly drawn rune scrawled in a wide circle at McDougal's feet. It emits a subtle glow, an arcane energy that sparks a jolt of alarm through my veins. A sudden, sinking realization hits me hard: he's not bluffing—he's on the verge of initiating the summoning ritual. My heart hammers in my chest, and I can't help but shout the warning out loud, my voice cracking with urgency. "He's about to start the summoning ritual!" Everyone on the team tenses, their eyes snapping to the ominous inscription on the rooftop, fully aware that if McDougal completes this, the consequences might be far beyond anything we're prepared to face.
I charge forward, my stun pistol drawn and ready. The crisp night air whips past me as I take aim and fire, the electric crackle of the weapon piercing the relative quiet of the rooftop. McDougal, ever the adept manipulator of water, reacts almost instantaneously. With a sweeping gesture, a thick wall of ice erupts from the moisture in the air, shimmering under the city lights. But he doesn't stop there; with a deft flick of his wrist, he sends the ice wall sliding rapidly toward me like a giant frozen wave. I don't have time to think. Instinct takes over, and I execute a roll-jump to the side, barely evading the crushing blow of the ice, which shatters against the rooftop where I stood moments ago. Shards scatter around, glinting like dangerous diamonds strewn across the ground. I can feel the chill from the ice biting into my skin as I regain my footing, my breath visible in puffs of white. Gambit, always quick on the draw, seizes the opportunity. With his characteristic flair, he flings one of his charged playing cards. It arcs beautifully through the air, a small comet streaking toward McDougal. The card doesn't strike him but instead explodes in a burst of brilliant light right in front of his face. McDougal flinches, momentarily blinded by the flash, his hands going up to shield his eyes.
Seizing the moment of disorientation, I rush him again, closing the distance as quickly as I can. But McDougal is nothing if not resilient. His vision clears just as I approach, and with a grimace of concentration, he manipulates the water vapor around him, creating a swirling barrier of steam to cloak his movements. The dense fog envelops him, obscuring my view and forcing me to slow my advance. I hear him somewhere inside the mist, his footsteps light but fast, moving with purpose. "Cap, he's using steam cover!" I shout, hoping to coordinate with my team who are positioned strategically around the rooftop. Over the comms, Cap acknowledges with a curt "Roger that," and I can hear the rapid footsteps of my teammates as they converge on McDougal's last known position. From within the cloud, I see a silhouette darting—the mist swirls dynamically around him as he moves. I take a calculated risk and fire a few blind shots into the fog, hoping to at least herd him in a direction where Cap or Iron Man can intercept. The electrical discharge of the stun pistol lights up the vapor momentarily, creating eerie flashes of blue light that do nothing to illuminate my target effectively.
Just then, a strong gust of wind sweeps across the rooftop, courtesy of Storm, who has joined the fray. She manipulates the air currents with precision, clearing the steam in a sweeping vortex that reveals McDougal, now slightly off-balance from the sudden change in his environment. Iron Man, hovering above, seizes the chance and fires a non-lethal repulsor blast aimed at McDougal's legs, trying to knock him down. McDougal stumbles but manages to maintain his footing. He glares upwards at Iron Man, his expression one of furious determination. With no time to waste, he draws moisture from the air once more, this time forming icicles that shoot up towards Iron Man like arrows. Iron Man dodges most, but a few graze his armor, leaving superficial marks. On the ground, Cap and I move in tandem, approaching from opposite sides to cut off any further escape. McDougal, now realizing he's nearly surrounded, gives a frustrated growl and makes a break for the edge of the rooftop. He leaps, not aiming for the street below, but to another building across, where he lands with a roll and immediately continues his escape.
Those of us who can fly go after him. With a burst of speed, I watch as Rogue, who is capable of flight through her absorbed abilities, quickly gains altitude and moves to intercept McDougal. Her determination is palpable even from a distance; she maneuvers with practiced precision, her trajectory set to cut him off just as he attempts another daring leap between the high-rise buildings of downtown Detroit. Rogue reaches him first, swooping in with the grace of a falcon. She grabs McDougal's arm firmly, attempting to halt his escape. "Stupid move, girly," he sneers, his voice laced with disdain and a confident smirk twisting his features. For a moment, it looks like she has him, but McDougal's abilities are far from predictable. Without missing a beat, McDougal turns his powers against Rogue in a way none of us anticipated. I can see his concentration, the slight motion of his free hand as he focuses intently on the water molecules within Rogue's body. Almost instantly, he superheats the water in Rogue's arm, and the sudden increase in temperature is visibly shocking. Rogue cries out in pain, a sound that cuts through the noise of the city and the wind whipping around us. The skin on her arm reddens alarmingly fast, steam rising from where her grip tightens in reaction to the intense heat. Despite the agony, Rogue tries to maintain her hold, but the pain becomes too much, and she's forced to let go, retreating back with a grimace of pain and frustration etched across her face. McDougal doesn't waste the opportunity; he uses the momentary lapse to propel himself further, his body slicing through the air with renewed vigor.
I keep on McDougal's trail, my pulse pounding in my ears as I race across the rooftops. Every muscle in my body is tense, fueled by the adrenaline surging through my veins. The wind whips around me, carrying the faint sounds of sirens and distant shouts, reminders of the chaos unfolding in the city below. Rooftop after rooftop, I push my legs to move faster, determined not to lose sight of McDougal. In the distance, I glimpse him dashing nimbly across a narrow catwalk, pausing only to glance over his shoulder before vaulting a gap to the next building. I grit my teeth, drawing on every ounce of agility I possess to mimic his path, my boots skidding dangerously on loose gravel as I land. My mission now is to stop McDougal before he can unleash any further destruction. It doesn't take him long to reach the third rooftop, and I catch sight of him halting, his gaze sweeping over the city skyline as if he's looking for something. My chest heaves with each breath, sweat trickling down my temples as I slow my pace, unsure of what he plans next. Suddenly, McDougal whirls around, his eyes gleaming with an intensity I've never seen in him before. Before I can take another step, he claps his hands together, the sharp sound ringing out into the night air. An instant later, the sky above us begins to shift and darken.
At first, I think it's just an approaching storm, but the color is all wrong—no heavy grays or inky blacks, but a deep, chilling blood-red that spreads like a stain across the heavens. "What the hell?!" I voice, heart pounding as the unsettling hue cloaks the city in an ominous glow. McDougal's face twists into a grim smile as he raises his gaze skyward. "With the power of the stone, I will purge this world of corruption," he shouts, his voice carrying an unhinged, zealous quality that makes my stomach lurch. I peer up at the darkening red sky, noticing a jagged tear forming amid the clouds. It looks like a window shattered in midair, shards of reality breaking apart to reveal something behind our world. Could this be the beginning of that fabled summoning ritual we've feared since discovering his runic circles? My pulse hammers with equal parts dread and adrenaline. Then, abruptly, Wanda appears beside me, her scarlet energy crackling faintly around her hands as if drawn out by the disturbance in the sky. "Stop! You don't know what you're doing!" she cries. I grip my weapon tightly, adjusting my stance to prepare for whatever might come next. The red sky now dominates my peripheral vision, flooding the world with an eerie, otherworldly glow.
Within that moment, an object appears through the dimensional rift. The object is small, the size of a marble, yet as it hovers there in the crimson light of the broken sky, its presence radiates an overwhelming, almost palpable power that makes the very air around us tremble. I stand frozen on the rooftop, my eyes locked on the shimmering sphere as it slowly rotates, emitting a subtle, pulsating glow that seems to beat in time with my own racing heart. Every instinct in me screams that this is no ordinary trinket; it is a focal point of raw, arcane energy, an artifact that bridges our world with something far beyond our understanding. The entire team gathers around me in hushed awe, our voices falling silent as we all feel the same resonating power coursing through our bodies. I can sense it vibrating in the ground beneath our feet, in the air that swirls chaotically around the shattered remnants of the dimensional rift. For a fleeting second, time seems to slow as I observe the marble-like object in detail. Its surface is smooth and reflective, yet hints of intricate etchings dance across its surface—symbols that defy immediate recognition but fill me with both dread and wonder. The object hovers as if suspended by some invisible force, oscillating gently between the realms, and its aura seems to whisper secrets of long-forgotten magics and forbidden knowledge. I feel the weight of its energy pressing into my very soul, stirring memories of ancient legends and cryptic warnings I once dismissed as mere myths. The power it emanates is both beautiful and terrifying—a delicate balance of creation and destruction. Around me, I see my comrades' expressions shift from determination to awe. Even Cap, ever the stalwart leader, looks momentarily overwhelmed by the significance of what we're witnessing.
The marble-like object finally comes to rest in the palm of McDougal's outstretched hand. As it does, a deep hum fills the air, a sound so profound it resonates in my chest like a drum. The ground beneath our feet trembles slightly, a subtle yet unmistakable shiver that courses through the concrete and steel of the rooftop under us. I instinctively brace myself, my muscles tensing, ready for whatever might come next. The air thickens around us, charged with a palpable energy that makes every detail sharp, every color vivid. McDougal's face, caught in the glow of the artifact, is a mask of triumph, his eyes shining with a fervor that borders on zealotry. Suddenly, a sharp crack of a rifle shot pierces the charged atmosphere, and the scene erupts into chaos. McDougal cries out, a sharp, pained sound as he's hit in the shoulder. The impact sends him staggering backward, his grip on the marble loosening. The object slips from his grasp, clattering onto the rooftop with a sound that, despite its softness, sends a wave of urgency through me. I swing my head in the direction of the shot, scanning the surrounding rooftops through the enhanced visual capabilities of my HUD. There, a few rooftops away, I spot him—Drake. He stands with the confidence of one who has just drastically altered the course of events, his sniper rifle lowering slightly. He mockingly salutes me, a grin spreading across his face, clearly pleased with his intervention. Before I can react to Drake's provocations, another disruption shatters the moment—Sam and Tony, who had been closing in to provide backup, are suddenly knocked out of the sky. My head snaps around just in time to see Skeith, another of CERBERUS's elite enforcers, emerge from her cloaking mode. Her and Drake's presence confirms that CERBERUS is deeply entangled in this affair.
The situation quickly spirals, the balance of power shifting unpredictably as allies are taken down and enemies reveal their hands. I push off the ground, sprinting towards McDougal to secure the marble before he or anyone else can reclaim it. My legs pump hard against the rooftop. As I run, I keep a wary eye on Drake's position, aware that he could take another shot at any moment. Reaching McDougal, I see him clutching his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers, his face contorted not just in pain but in rage. He glares at me, then at the marble lying innocently beside him.
Before I can react further, a booted foot stops me. I slowly peer up to see a man in a hooded outfit. Without a word, he kicks me square in the face. The impact sends a shockwave of pain exploding behind my eyes, my vision blurring momentarily as I tumble backward onto the hard rooftop. My head throbs, and I taste blood on my tongue. The world tilts wildly for a moment, and all I can do is focus on steadying my breath. I blink rapidly, fighting to clear the stars dancing in front of my eyes while my mind scrambles to make sense of the sudden ambush. A dull ringing echoes in my ears, and my heart pounds out a frantic rhythm in my chest. I prop myself up on one elbow, instinctively bringing an arm up to guard against another blow. My assailant doesn't speak; he merely regards me with a cold indifference. My body screams for me to move, to retaliate, but my limbs feel sluggish, still reeling from that sudden, jarring kick. Instead, I brace myself, jaw clenched, determined not to be taken down so easily. The tension in the air crackles, and I can feel adrenaline surge anew in my veins. If I'm going to stand any chance against this hooded figure, I need to push through the pain, find my footing, and fight back.
"Cheap shot, bitch. Now let's try that again on equal footing, you wannabe Grim Reaper," I growl, spitting blood onto the concrete as I push myself to a crouch. My vision clears just enough to focus on the hooded man looming above me. He's silent; the only sound between us is my labored breathing and the distant chaos of the ongoing battle. There's a pause, a breath of a moment, where we both size up the other, and then the air is charged with the tension of impending conflict. With a sudden surge, I launch myself at him, using my low position to drive into his midsection. The hooded man reacts quickly, sidestepping and attempting a swift counter with his elbow aimed at the back of my head. I duck under the strike, rolling forward and coming up behind him. Using my momentum, I grab his arm and twist it, aiming to hyperextend the elbow. He's flexible, more so than I expected, bending with the motion and flipping out of my grasp, landing a few feet away. We both reset, circling each other now. I notice he moves with a trained grace, every step measured, every breath controlled—a fighter, no doubt, but with a style that's fluid, almost dance-like. I wipe my mouth, tasting blood.
"Not bad," I admit grudgingly, settling into a defensive stance, "But you're gonna have to do better." He doesn't respond with words. Instead, he lunges, a blur of motion that has me reacting purely on instinct. I block his first punch, the impact jarring up my arm, and counter with a knee aimed at his stomach. He twists away, the knee-grazing him, and retaliates with a series of strikes that force me back. His fists are a whirlwind, but I manage to block or deflect most of them. I feint left and then go right, catching him slightly off guard. My fist connects with his jaw, and I feel the satisfaction of a solid hit. The hooded figure stumbles back, shaking his head, clearly not expecting me to land a blow. I press the advantage, not giving him a moment to recover, driving him towards the edge of the rooftop. He rallies, his composure snapping back in place like a steel trap. With a swift movement, he grabs my incoming wrist, using my own momentum to throw me over his shoulder. I hit the ground hard, the air whooshing out of my lungs, but roll away before he can follow up with a stomp. Scrambling to my feet, I brace for his next attack, but this time I'm quicker. I dodge to the side as he approaches and deliver a low sweep with my leg, aiming to knock him off his feet.
It works. He falls, but with astonishing agility, he catches himself with his hands and kicks out in a sweeping motion that I barely dodge by leaping backward. We both get to our feet at the same time, breathing heavily, each assessing the other for any sign of weakness. "Not just a pretty hood then," I pant, trying to keep the atmosphere light despite the seriousness of our skirmish. He doesn't smile, only launches at me again. This time, I'm ready. As he comes in, I step into his approach, catching his arm and using his forward momentum to throw him over my hip in a classic judo throw. He hits the rooftop with a grunt, and before he can recover, I'm on him, pinning him down with a knee on his chest. "Enough!" a voice thunders out, slicing through the din of combat like a blade.
Everyone stops what they're engaging in and turns their attention to the source. There, emerging from the shadows into the dim light that washes over the rooftop, stands Zemo. He holds the marble in his outstretched hand, its luminescence pulsing like a living heart. The marble casts eerie, shifting shadows across his face, highlighting his cold, calculating gaze. All of us stare at him in shock, the intensity of the moment freezing us in place. In a sudden flare of desperation, McDougal jumps to his feet. His face is contorted with fury and fear, sweat, and blood mixing on his brow. He throws out his hands towards Zemo, veins bulging as he summons the full extent of his newfound power. I've heard of blood bending—an insidious form of water manipulation, rumored to be so dark and powerful that few dare to speak of it. McDougal's eyes blaze with the raw force of his will, his fingers twitching as if pulling at the very lifeblood of Zemo.
But Zemo stands firm, his expression unchanging, almost bored. Effortlessly, he raises the marble, and it glows brighter, its light enveloping him in a protective shield. McDougal's attack seems to dissolve into the air, his power negated by the profound magic of the stone. "You should have stayed in the hole you crawled out of, fool," Zemo says, his voice low and filled with a chilling finality. With a swift, almost casual flick of his wrist, Zemo uses the marble stone to amplify his next move. There's a harsh, cracking sound that slices through the tension on the rooftop—a sound gruesomely final. McDougal's body jerks once, violently, then goes limp. His neck is broken; he collapses in a heap on the concrete, motionless, the life extinguished from his eyes in an instant. A heavy silence falls over us, the gravity of what just occurred settling like a weight on everyone's shoulders. Zemo looks around, his gaze meeting each of ours in turn, challenging, daring anyone to speak up or react. His control over the situation is absolute.
Zemo locks eyes with Captain America. Without saying a single word, everyone on the rooftop can see the utter disdain the two men have for each other. The air between them is thick with a history of conflict, a silent battle of wills that speaks volumes more than words ever could. Their gazes are locked in a fierce standoff, each challenging the other in a silent assertion of dominance and defiance. As I observe this charged moment, I understand that while Zemo possesses the power to wipe us all out with the stone, such an action wouldn't satisfy him. It's clear from his demeanor and what I've come to know of him that he thrives not just on victory, but on the complete subjugation and humiliation of his adversaries. Zemo is a man who revels in the suffering of his enemies, preferring to see them broken and defeated before he delivers the final blow. His need to dominate and degrade is what has fueled much of his vendetta against us, especially against Cap. However, victory through mere annihilation is too straightforward for Zemo. It lacks the personal touch of cruelty he so often employs—a fact that might be the only thing sparing us from immediate destruction at this moment. This calculated restraint, though, is part of what makes him such a formidable and dangerous adversary. Every action he takes is layered, every decision part of a larger, more sadistic game.
The purple-masked CERBERUS commander flashes a sinister smile at Cap, "I will allow you to lick your wounds today, Captain. I want you at your best when we finally clash. Consider it a gift for unintentionally helping me collect the stone." His voice is smooth, dripping with condescension and the thrill of victory, yet there is a theatrical quality to his words as if every syllable is calculated to inflict maximum psychological impact. Zemo's smile lingers unnervingly as he holds the marble aloft, the pulsing light from the stone casting macabre shadows across his face, enhancing the menacing aura he projects. The stone's glow seems almost to pulse in sync with his words, a visual echo of his threatening presence. Around us, the remaining members of CERBERUS stand rigid, their own expressions hidden behind masks and hoods, yet their body language speaks of readiness to follow their leader's every command. Captain America stands firm, his shield held at the ready, though I can see the muscle tension in his jaw and the slight narrowing of his eyes that betray his frustration and anger at the turn of events. He doesn't flinch under Zemo's gaze, meeting the commander's mocking smile with a steely resolve that speaks volumes of his unwillingness to be cowed or intimidated. "We'll be ready for you," Cap replies, his voice steady, projecting a calm defiance that contrasts sharply with the tense atmosphere. But before any of us can react further, Zemo turns on his heel, a swirl of his dark cloak dramatically marking the gesture. He steps back into the shadows, the other CERBERUS operatives falling into step behind him with military precision. In a matter of moments, they begin to fade, disappearing into the night as if melting away into the darkness. Their retreat is swift and silent.
The abrupt departure sends a ripple of tension through our ranks. We exchange looks, a silent conversation passing between us in glances and slight nods. The night air feels colder now, the earlier chaos giving way to a haunted quiet that hangs heavily over the rooftop. I clench and unclench my fists, feeling the adrenaline slowly ebbing from my veins. Psylocke kneels over McDougal's dead body, her expression a mixture of contemplation and sorrow. "What do we do with him?" she asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she looks up at the rest of us gathered around. The fallen man lies motionless, a stark reminder of the deadly stakes we're playing for. Cap shakes his head, his face set in a grim line as he observes the scene, the starlight reflecting off his shield, giving him an almost ethereal glow. "Nothing we can do. SHIELD will deal with it," he responds, his tone carrying the weight of command yet tinged with regret. He glances down at McDougal, his eyes conveying a silent respect for a fallen adversary, despite the chaos he had wrought. Karai, standing a little apart from the group, slides her hand over her hair, pushing back the strands dampened by the night's exertions. "We got played," she states flatly, her voice laced with frustration and a hint of anger. She turns to look at each of us, her gaze piercing as she assesses the impact of the evening's events on the team. "Zemo knew exactly what he was doing. He used McDougal as a pawn."
The realization that we had been manipulated hangs heavy in the air, settling like a cloak over each of us. The cold truth that we were outplayed by Zemo stings, prompting a mixture of responses. Some of us shift uncomfortably, others clench their fists, ready to rectify our missteps. The night air feels chillier now as if echoing the cold reality of our situation. "We need to be smarter," I say, stepping closer to the group, feeling the need to rally our spirits, "Zemo's strategy was calculated to exploit our weaknesses, our reactions. We can't let that happen again. We need to anticipate his moves, get ahead of him somehow." Psylocke stands up from her crouch beside McDougal, nodding in agreement, "We also need to consider the bigger picture. Zemo has the stone now, but he also revealed his hand. We know he's after something bigger, something potentially catastrophic. We need to figure out his endgame before he can set it into motion." Cap nods solemnly, his strategic mind already turning over the possibilities, "We'll debrief back at base. Analyze every piece of intel we have on Zemo and CERBERUS. I want every scenario planned out. We're going to turn the tables on him next time."
At that moment, I catch sight of Wanda staring up at the sky, fading back to its normal state. The eerie red has dissipated, leaving behind the familiar dark blue of the night, speckled with stars. Yet, there's a tension in her posture, a stillness that speaks volumes. "He rang the bell," Wanda says cryptically, her gaze still fixed on the heavens as if she can see something beyond the visible. "What?" I voice, my confusion evident. The phrase makes no sense to me, and the seriousness of her tone sets off alarm bells in my mind. The phrase makes no sense to me, and the seriousness of her tone sets off alarm bells in my mind. Wanda turns to look at me, her expression solemn, eyes deep with the weight of knowledge she carries. "The mythical barrier that shields our realm from the dark forces outside. Zemo's actions tonight, they've created a bigger crack," Wanda explains, her words slow and deliberate. I take a moment to process this, the gravity of her statement sinking in. The 'mythical barrier'—it sounds like something out of an ancient legend or a fantasy novel, yet coming from Wanda, I know it's all too real. She continues, "Every time the barrier is tampered with, it's like a bell that rings out across the other realms. Tonight, with that stone, Zemo didn't just use it; he announced our vulnerabilities to whatever lies beyond. We might have stopped him temporarily, but the sound has been made, the bell rung. It cannot be unrung."
I glance back up at the sky, trying to imagine it as a shield, invisible yet crucial, protecting us from unknown horrors lurking just out of sight. The concept is daunting, and I feel a chill despite the night's mildness. "So, what does that mean for us? For this world?" I ask, needing to understand the full scope of the threat we face. "It means we should prepare for the consequences. Entities from other dimensions, other realms that might have been waiting for an opportunity like this, could perceive this as an invitation or a weakness to exploit," Wanda responds, her voice tinged with concern. She looks around, ensuring the others are out of earshot, then leans closer, "This isn't just about defending against Zemo anymore. We might have to defend against threats we've never encountered before." I nod, absorbing her words. The scenario she paints is more severe than any of us anticipated dealing with. It adds a new layer of urgency to our mission—guarding not just against earthly enemies but against interdimensional threats. As we turn to rejoin the others, I feel the weight of our new reality settling around me. The fight against Zemo is far from over, and now, it seems, it's part of a much larger battle—one that spans beyond our comprehension. Despite everything returning to a semblance of normalcy, I can't shake the sense that we've only dodged the first of many bullets. Wanda's words weigh heavily on my thoughts, reminding me that the dangers we face extend far beyond Zemo's machinations. By ringing the bell, I can't help but wonder who or what is going to answer the call.