Steve could only watch as Deathstroke's black-and-yellow figure slowly floated away.
Bucky, gripping Dr. Zola, still wore the round glasses perched on his nose.
He glanced at the hollow robotic shells on the floor, then at Steve's glum face.
"You know him?"
Steve headed toward the train's engine to stop it, planning to regroup with the team.
"We had an unpleasant run-in once. He stole scientists and Super Soldier Serum from the Strategic Scientific Reserve. But later, he saved us all in Paris. I can't figure out what he's after or who he's working for."
"That serum's what turned you from a matchstick into Captain America, right?"
Before Steve could answer, Zola protested, "Dr. Erskine was German! His work was funded by Hydra. You stole it, and now someone else stole it from you. That's karma."
"Shut it!" Bucky smacked Zola hard. "We haven't settled the score for what you did to me."
"Keep him alive for trial," Steve said, not a fan of abusing prisoners. But if it was Bucky letting off steam, he'd look the other way.
"Deathstroke can fly, right? He flew in and out just now, didn't he?" Bucky gave Zola a few more casual thumps, feeling better, then steered the talk back to Deathstroke.
They reached the engine. Steve knocked out the driver and sabotaged the power system, bringing the train to a gradual stop.
"Yeah, last time we met, he didn't have that ability," Steve said, slinging Zola over his shoulder. The two carefully stepped out through the breached carriage.
"He's fast, too. I couldn't even see him when he hit the enemy line," Bucky said, walking along the tracks, relieved to feel solid ground.
"Definitely. He's always been fast. I only catch a blur."
Steve sighed. Super Soldier or not, against that kind of power, he felt ordinary.
Bucky nudged Steve to look at the gray-white sky. "If he's fast and can fly, I bet he's letting us see his back on purpose."
Sure enough, Deathstroke was drifting away in slow motion, back turned, almost posing.
He was getting farther, true, but at a comically leisurely pace. They could still see him.
Snowflakes whipped up from the peaks, swirling into white mists. Deathstroke's silhouette, framed by the bleak atmosphere, seemed almost grand.
Steve: "Don't stare. It's bad for you. Let's move."
He and Bucky ducked their heads and hurried off.
Meanwhile, below the railway bridge, a squad of Leviathan agents hid in the snow, frozen in place as they watched the floating figure.
If he spots us, we're done for.
Yet, deep down, they felt they'd missed something crucial.
When Steve and Bucky finally rejoined the Howling Commandos and made it back to the SSR's frontline base, only regular staff greeted them.
Steve handed Zola to the MPs for lockup, scanning for the figure that made his heart race.
"Where's Agent Carter?"
The MP shrugged, cuffing Zola. "Probably with Colonel Phillips. No idea what they're up to."
"Thanks." Steve nodded, then turned to Bucky. "What's your plan?"
Bucky was already arm-in-arm with the others, ready to hit the bar.
Mr. Wilson had slipped him and Steve some pocket money, and Bucky wasn't shy about taking it.
Growing up, they'd eaten plenty of Wilson Industries' treats. Mr. Wilson took them out monthly—big dinners, fun outings.
At first, they felt awkward, like they shouldn't always accept handouts.
But crafty Mr. Wilson tempted them with new ice cream flavors, toy cars, and stylish clothes.
Eventually, Steve and Bucky got used to it, keeping his kindness in their hearts and accepting small gifts and cash.
Though never official, Su Ming had, in a way, been their godfather.
Now flush with cash and fresh off a near-death experience, Bucky was ready to drink hard and maybe charm a girl to unwind.
"I'm not you, Mr. Iron Body. I'm off to have fun. You in?"
Bucky playfully tapped Dugan's round hat, grinning, still wearing Zola's glasses like a trophy.
Steve knew Bucky's game—chasing skirts. He shook his head, pulling out a few bucks. "Nah, I've got to report to Colonel Phillips. You guys go. First round's on me. Meet you at the bar later."
Bucky's look screamed he'd seen through Steve's excuse. He took the cash with a sly grin. "Reporting to Agent Carter, huh? Sure you'll make it to the bar? That'd be quick."
"Hahaha!" The Commandos hooted, sharing knowing laughs.
Steve feigned a shield bash but just gave Bucky a light shove. "Get lost. It's not like that."
Bucky dragged the others off, already regaling them with old stories. "Steve's still a virgin, can you believe it? Let me tell you about this one time…"
Steve sighed skyward. After surviving and donning those glasses, Bucky seemed chattier. Or was it his imagination?
He searched the bunker for Peggy, finally spotting her by a lab table in Howard's testing area.
Colonel Phillips, Peggy, Howard, and Mr. Wilson were gathered around a table, doing… something. A crowd of onlookers craned their necks.
"Colonel, Howling Commandos reporting back!" Steve saluted, standing by the table.
Phillips barely noticed, fixated on small tiles on the table. "Oh, you're back? Good. Write a report. You're dismissed… Two wan."
"Hu! All one suit! 24 points, pay up!" Howard knocked over his tiles, grabbing Phillips' discarded one to complete his set, beaming as he held out his hand.
Phillips tsked, grudgingly counting out dollars for Howard, then glared at Steve.
It was his fault for distracting him and making him play the wrong tile.
Initially, Phillips had opposed mahjong in the camp, but he couldn't rein in Howard or Slade.
They roped Agent Carter into playing, and with Lorraine gone, Peggy was stuck handling the consultants.
Technically, playing mahjong was part of her duties.
But the clatter of tiles and Howard's giddy cackles drew Phillips in. He watched a few rounds.
Next thing he knew, he was seated, tiles stacked, playing.
They'd been at it for a day and a night.
Days later, everyone but Su Ming had dark circles under their eyes. The table's corner was littered with empty instant noodle cups and cigarette butts.
Su Ming pushed his tiles, sighing. He'd been building a big hand.
But Howard's luck was unreal—he won every round. Phillips' terrible plays seemed designed to lose.
"Alright, Colonel, let's call it. Steve's got business," Su Ming said, stretching his shoulders. Sitting so long was dull.
Peggy stood, shaking her head, dizzy from playing too long.
With the others done, Phillips couldn't keep going. He shot Howard a glare, vowing to win his money back next time, then left with Steve.
Howard carefully packed the mahjong set, smirking, his mustache twitching.
He was grateful to Slade for teaching him this game—way more fun than poker.
The cash in his hand? Normally, he wouldn't bend to pick it up off the street. But winning it felt different.
"Off to bed. Then I'm challenging Phillips again."
Why chase women? Until those nurses learned mahjong, he was done with them!
"Mahjong's a blast," Howard said, heartfelt.
Su Ming nodded, smiling. He'd helped Howard find true joy. His metaphorical red scarf felt brighter.
The Allies survived that harsh winter. The Ardennes campaign ended with the Germans retreating, and the Soviets' eastern offensive grew fiercer.
By 1945, Berlin's mustachioed leader was making blunders even Howard could see. The Germans were nearly done.
But Howard had to pause his beloved mahjong to return stateside for a secret project.
Codename: Manhattan Project. Goal: build a big bomb. A secret he blabbed to Su Ming.
Before leaving, he told Su Ming he'd bought a building in New York, dubbed Stark Mahjong House, and said to wait for him there.
A big bomb? Just atomic fission and a chain reaction. No big deal. He'd whip it up in no time.
Once the Germans and Japanese were beaten, they'd all play cards together!
But Su Ming stayed. He had one last task.
Secure the Cosmic Cube for the Ancient One to study and keep Steve alive.
Sleeping under Arctic ice? No way. Get up, Steve, and start shooting Wilson Industries ads!