Arctic Circle - Present Day
The storm had been relentless for three days straight.
White oblivion stretched endlessly in all directions, broken only by the distant silhouettes of research equipment that the search team had managed to anchor against the howling gales. The Arctic was asserting its dominance, reminding these human interlopers of their fragility in one of Earth's most unforgiving environments.
Dr. Marcus Coleman pulled his government-issued parka tighter around his throat, the synthetic fur of the hood doing little to stop the ice particles from stinging his cheeks. As head of the search operation, he'd spent enough time in extreme conditions to know this storm was unusual even by Arctic standards – almost as if the frozen wasteland itself was trying to protect whatever lay beneath.
The distant rumble of engines cut through the wind's keening. Coleman squinted through his protective goggles, making out the approaching headlights of a high-tech HMUV grinding its way through snowdrifts taller than a man. The vehicle's specialized treads churned through the frozen landscape with mechanical determination, the only thing capable of traversing this terrain in such conditions.
The HMUV ground to a halt twenty yards from the main research tent. Two men emerged, both wearing black tactical cold-weather gear that stood in stark contrast to the scientific team's white and gray parkas. Even without insignias, Coleman recognized government agents when he saw them. The way they moved – efficient, alert, assessing – marked them as military or intelligence. Probably the latter, given the circumstances.
Coleman trudged through the snow to meet them, fighting against the wind that seemed determined to push him backward with each step. He extended a gloved hand as they approached.
"You the guys from Washington?" he shouted over the deafening wind.
The taller of the two men took his hand in a firm grip. His badge identified him as Lieutenant Carson, S.H.I.E.L.D.
"That's some flight," Carson replied, voice barely audible above the storm.
The second agent, younger with a tech specialist insignia, scanned the research camp with trained eyes.
"Get many other visitors out here?" he asked pointedly.
Coleman didn't take offense. In his fifteen years of Arctic research, he'd learned that government types always assumed security breaches where scientists saw only logistics challenges.
"How long have you been on site?" the tech specialist continued, his gaze now fixed on the sophisticated drilling equipment partially visible through the whipping snow.
Coleman gestured toward the largest tent, where they might at least hear each other without shouting themselves hoarse. Neither agent moved to follow the suggestion.
"Since this morning," Coleman responded, practically having to scream over a sudden gust that made him wish they had followed him to the tent. "A Russian oil team called it in about eighteen hours ago. Their deep-penetrating radar picked up something unusual during a survey. Once they realized what they might be looking at, they contacted their authorities, who eventually reached out to... well, your people, I suppose."
Lieutenant Carson nodded, his expression betraying nothing. "How come nobody spotted it before?"
Coleman couldn't suppress a wry smile at the question. He gestured around them at the endless expanse of white, the constant shifting of snow and ice sculpted by relentless wind.
"Ice melts. Storms blow in. Landscape changes all the time," he explained. "This particular section was under about thirty additional feet of ice just two years ago, according to our geological surveys. Climate change is revealing things that have been hidden for decades... sometimes longer."
The lieutentant's face remained impassive, but Coleman sensed a shift in his attention. The storm seemed to intensify, sending a particularly violent blast of wind that forced all three men to brace themselves momentarily.
When it subsided, Coleman found himself voicing the question that had been gnawing at him since the first radar images came through.
"You mind if I ask what this thing is, exactly?"
The two agents exchanged a quick glance before Lieutenant Carson responded with practiced ease.
"Would you believe us if we said it was a weather balloon?"
The attempt at humor fell flat in the howling wasteland. Coleman stared at them, unimpressed.
"No."
The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the storm's fury. Finally, Coleman sighed, ice crystals forming on his beard.
"Listen, for the record, I'm not sure we have the equipment for a job like this—"
"Is the sonar up and running yet?" Carson interrupted, clearly uninterested in Coleman's concerns.
"Sure. We're getting deep ice preliminaries now." Coleman nodded toward a research station where several scientists huddled over monitoring equipment. "Very deep. Whatever this thing is, it's been here a long time."
The tech specialist shifted impatiently. "So? How long before we can start craning it out?"
Coleman stopped walking, turning to face the agents with an expression that mixed disbelief and professional irritation. These government types always thought everything could be solved with enough manpower and equipment, regardless of environmental complexities.
"I don't think you quite understand..."
Words failing him, Coleman simply pointed toward something looming in the distance, barely visible through the curtain of snow. Both agents followed his gesture, their trained composure cracking for the first time as they processed what they were seeing.
Rising from the ice like the skeletal remnant of some prehistoric monster was a massive wingtip, its metal skin scarred and weathered but unmistakably manufactured. Even partly buried, its scale was breathtaking—the exposed section alone towered above them like a small skyscraper, disappearing into the ice at an angle that suggested something of truly incredible proportions lay beneath.
"You guys are going to need one hell of a crane," Coleman stated flatly.
The agents stood transfixed, their silhouettes small and insignificant against the monumental discovery. As the wind shifted momentarily, more of the structure became visible. Near where the wing connected to the buried fuselage, partially revealed by recent ice melt, was a faded insignia—a skull with tentacles spreading outward, surrounded by German text stenciled across the metal surface.
"HYDRA," the lieutenant whispered, the name lost to the wind but the recognition evident in his suddenly tense posture.
Six hours later, after emergency equipment had been airlifted in despite the dangerous flight conditions, a team of S.H.I.E.L.D. specialists had established a preliminary access point into the buried aircraft. Specialized thermal lasers cut through decades of ice, creating a shaft just wide enough for personnel to descend.
Lieutenant Carson and the tech specialist, now identified as Agent Rivera, prepared for the first entry. Their cold-weather gear had been supplemented with climbing harnesses and communications equipment that would allow the research team on the surface to monitor their exploration.
"Atmospheric readings are stable," Coleman confirmed, checking the sensors they'd lowered into the shaft earlier. "Oxygen levels are low but acceptable. Temperature is holding at minus fifteen Celsius inside the fuselage. Structural integrity appears consistent with our radar mapping."
Carson nodded, adjusting his helmet light. "Keep the channel open. We'll maintain regular communication."
"Be careful down there," Coleman added. "That aircraft has been under extreme pressure for decades. Internal structures could be compromised in ways our scans can't detect."
The two agents shared a look that Coleman couldn't quite interpret before methodically checking each other's equipment one final time. With practiced efficiency, they began their descent, rappelling down the shaft that penetrated deep into the ice, disappearing into darkness broken only by the clinical glow of their helmet lamps.
Inside the frozen craft, time seemed to have stopped. The ice had preserved everything in crystalline suspension—control panels with shattered screens, seats torn from their moorings, equipment scattered by whatever catastrophic event had brought this behemoth down decades ago. Carson and Rivera moved cautiously through the devastated interior, their lights creating shifting shadows that seemed almost alive in the frozen tomb.
"This has got to be World War II era," Carson spoke into his radio, voice hushed despite the absence of any living soul who might overhear. "But the Luftwaffe didn't have anything nearly this advanced." He paused, taking in the scale of the fuselage. "Or this big."
Their lights revealed technology that seemed decades ahead of what should have existed in the 1940s. Energy conduits ran through the walls, their purpose unclear but their design unmistakably sophisticated. Control systems featured components that would have been theoretical at best during the war.
"Lieutenant?" Rivera called softly from several feet ahead.
Carson moved in his direction, careful to avoid disturbing anything unnecessarily. "Hold that, Base," he said into his radio.
Rivera had stopped before a section of the craft where ice had formed in a thick, translucent sheet across what appeared to be the main command center. He was carefully chipping away at the formation, his movements growing more deliberate with each piece removed.
"What is it?" Carson asked, sensing his colleague's sudden tension.
Rivera didn't answer immediately, continuing his work with focused precision. As the last layer of ice fell away, his light illuminated something embedded in the frozen mass—a flash of color incongruous among the monochrome wreckage.
Red. White. Blue.
Carson stared, momentarily unable to process what he was seeing. Perfectly preserved in the ice, still clutched in a gloved hand, was a shield—circular, vibranium, adorned with a star. A shield so iconic it had become mythological over the decades, the symbol of a hero lost to history.
"Base," Carson said into his radio, his voice controlled despite the adrenaline surging through him. "Get me a line to the colonel."
"It's 3:00 a.m., sir," came the response from the surface team.
"I don't care what time it is," Carson replied, unable to tear his eyes from the discovery as Rivera carefully cleared more ice, revealing not just the shield but the figure still holding it—a man in a blue uniform, his face obscured but his posture suggesting he had faced whatever end came for him with characteristic determination. "This one's waited long enough."
The implications hung in the frozen air between them. After seventy years, the search was over. Captain America had been found.
—
TØNSBERG, NORWAY – March 3rd, 1942
Two partisans crouched behind an overturned cart at the edge of the town square, their breath forming small clouds in the cold Norwegian night. An ominous mechanical clanking filled the air, growing louder with each passing second. Erik, a weathered fisherman who had watched his homeland fall to occupation, checked his rifle one final time. Beside him, Jan—barely twenty but with eyes that had already seen too much—clutched a bag containing three Molotov cocktails.
"They're coming," Jan whispered, his voice tight with tension. "More than last time."
Erik nodded grimly. "The Church Keeper was right. They've found something." He peered around the cart, watching as HYDRA troops moved methodically through the darkened streets, their black uniforms making them almost invisible against the night. Unlike regular German soldiers, these men moved with machine-like precision, faceless behind specialized masks that concealed everything but their eyes.
Distant screams echoed from the far side of town as civilians were rounded up for questioning. Three HYDRA soldiers appeared at the end of the street, their weapons sweeping in practiced arcs as they approached the partisans' position.
"Wait," Erik breathed, placing a restraining hand on Jan's arm as the younger man tensed to move. "Not yet."
The soldiers drew closer. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten.
"Now!" Erik hissed, rising from cover with his rifle already at his shoulder. He fired three rapid shots. Two soldiers dropped immediately; the third staggered but managed to raise his weapon before Jan's Molotov cocktail shattered against his chest, engulfing him in flames.
"Fortell keeperen! Hurry!" [Tell the keeper! Hurry!] Erik shouted to his companion in Norwegian, his face etched with determination as he reached for another Molotov cocktail from Jan's bag. "I'll hold them here!"
Jan sprinted toward the solitary stone tower that stood at the edge of town, clutching the remaining firebombs against his chest. Behind him, Erik took up position behind a low stone wall, his rifle trained on the street where more HYDRA troops would surely follow.
He didn't have to wait long. Four more soldiers appeared, moving more cautiously now that they knew resistance awaited them. Erik picked off one, then another, but was forced to duck as the remaining pair opened fire, stone chips flying around him as bullets struck his cover.
In the momentary pause as they reloaded, Erik lit his Molotov and hurled it over the wall. A scream confirmed at least one hit. He rose to finish the last soldier, only to freeze at the sound of mechanical grinding from his left.
The rhythmic clanking reached a crescendo until suddenly, impossibly, a massive tank—the Landkreuzer—crashed through the wall of a nearby building, bricks and mortar exploding outward. Erik's face went ashen at the sight of the scarlet emblem emblazoned on its side: a skull with tentacles spreading outward. HYDRA.
This was no ordinary panzer. The behemoth was at least twice the size of any tank Erik had ever seen, its massive cannon swiveling with mechanical precision as it locked onto his position. The metal hull was angular and menacing, covered in riveted armor plates that no conventional weapon could hope to penetrate. Where a regular German tank might have displayed Wehrmacht insignia, this monster proudly bore the HYDRA skull and tentacles, a declaration that it served neither Germany nor its Führer, but something altogether more sinister.
The Landkreuzer's engine roared with unnatural power, belching thick black smoke as it crushed everything in its path. Its tracks were wider and more complex than any tank the Allies had yet encountered, allowing it to navigate terrain that would stop most armored vehicles. This was bleeding-edge technology, the kind that made stories of HYDRA's advanced weapons seem less like propaganda and more like terrifying reality.
Erik's moment of shock cost him dearly. The remaining HYDRA soldier used the distraction to flank him, putting a bullet through his left shoulder. Gasping with pain, Erik spun and dispatched his attacker with his final round, then fumbled to reload as the tank advanced.
His wounded arm refused to cooperate, fingers numb and clumsy as they struggled with the ammunition. Blood soaked through his jacket, turning black in the moonlight. The tank was less than thirty meters away now, its massive treads crushing the cobblestones beneath it.
Erik abandoned the rifle and reached for his last Molotov. If he could hit the viewports, blind the driver somehow... He struck a match against the wall, but as he reached to light the rag fuse, his blood-slick fingers betrayed him. The bottle toppled onto the cobblestones, its contents spilling uselessly.
There was nowhere left to run. Erik stood tall, facing the mechanical monster, his grandfather's hunting knife—the last weapon he possessed—clutched in his good hand. Better to die on his feet than cowering.
"For Norge!" [For Norway!] he shouted, his voice rising above the tank's mechanical grinding. "For Kong Haakon!"
The Landkreuzer's machine guns roared to life, cutting him down before he'd taken three steps toward it. His body crumpled to the cobblestones, riddled with bullets but his face still set in defiance.
At the church tower, Jan heard the sustained burst of gunfire and knew Erik was gone. His hands shook as he slipped inside the ancient wooden door, slamming it shut behind him. With trembling fingers, he dropped a heavy timber crossbeam into place, barricading the entrance.
"De har kommet for det!" [They have come for it!] Jan gasped, clutching at a stitch in his side.
The Church Keeper, an elderly man with eyes that had witnessed more than one war, hurried down the stone steps. "Det har de før." [They have before.] he replied calmly.
"Ikke slik," [Not like this.] Jan warned, his voice barely above a whisper.
The old man's face remained impassive. "La dem komme. De vil aldri finne det." [Let them come. They will never find it.]
Both men tensed as the unmistakable sound of the approaching tank grew louder. For one breathless moment, the world seemed to pause. Then the wall exploded inward. Bricks and timbers rained down like an avalanche.
When the dust finally settled, the Church Keeper struggled to his feet and began moving debris. He stopped in horror when he uncovered Jan—his head crushed by falling masonry, body broken beyond recognition.
The Church Keeper reached out a trembling hand to close Jan's staring eyes, whispering a quick prayer in Norwegian. "You fought bravely, my son. May your ancestors welcome you."
He had no time for further mourning. HYDRA troops poured through the breach, their boots clicking against the ancient stone floor as they surrounded him with mechanical precision. Outside, a modified car pulled up, its hood ornament fashioned in the likeness of the HYDRA emblem. A pair of gleaming black jackboots stepped onto the cobblestones.
The soldiers roughly yanked the old man to his feet, ignoring the blood on his hands and the grief on his face. They marched the Church Keeper to the center of the church, shoving him roughly to his knees before an ornate stone sarcophagus. The HYDRA lieutenant barked an order, and several men attempted to slide the massive lid aside. Despite their combined strength, it refused to budge.
"Open it!" the lieutenant commanded. "Schnell, bevor er—" [Quickly, before he—]
Precise footsteps interrupted him. The soldiers snapped to attention as a figure emerged from the shadows. Johann Schmidt stepped into the dim light, his movements fluid and controlled, his eyes sunken in a face that seemed unnaturally pale and waxy.
"It has taken me a long time to find this place," Schmidt said, his German accent clipping each word with surgical precision as he regarded the old man. "You should be commended."
He nodded to one of his men. "Help him up."
The soldier yanked the Church Keeper to his feet. Schmidt studied him with clinical curiosity.
"I think that you are a man of great vision," Schmidt continued. "And in this way, we are much alike."
The old man's weathered face hardened. "I am nothing like you."
"No, of course," Schmidt replied, the hint of a smile playing across his thin lips. "But what others see as superstition, you and I know to be a science." He glanced at his men still struggling with the coffin lid. "The oldest science."
"What you seek is just a legend," the Church Keeper insisted, his voice steadier than his trembling hands.
"Then why make such an effort to conceal it?"
Schmidt strode to the sarcophagus. With a strength that belied his slim frame, he heaved the heavy stone lid aside. It crashed to the floor, shattering into several pieces. Inside lay a desiccated corpse clutching an opaque crystalline cube.
"The Tesseract was the jewel of Odin's treasure room," Schmidt remarked, lifting the cube and turning it over in his gloved hands, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. He suddenly dropped it to the ground where it shattered like glass. "It is not something one buries."
He gripped the old man's shoulder and hissed in his ear. "But I think it is close, yes?"
"I cannot help you," the Church Keeper replied, his voice little more than a whisper.
"No," Schmidt acknowledged, his tone almost gentle. "But maybe you can help your village." He turned the old man to face the window, where the massive tank was now pointed directly at the town. "You must have some friends out there. Some little grandchildren, perhaps? I have no need for them to die."
Terror flickered across the keeper's face. Despite his best efforts, his eyes darted briefly to a section of the wall. Schmidt noticed immediately and released him.
He approached the wall, examining the intricate carving of an enormous tree with spreading branches and deep roots. "Yggdrasil," Schmidt murmured, running his fingers over the ancient relief. "Tree of the world. Guardian of wisdom..."
His gaze traveled along the roots until it landed on a serpent coiled among them. "And fate, also."
With precision born of extensive research, Schmidt pressed the serpent's eye. A soft click echoed through the chamber as a hidden compartment slid open, revealing a wooden box carved in the likeness of a snake.
The Church Keeper sagged, all resistance draining from his body. Schmidt opened the box, and brilliant blue light spilled out, illuminating his face with an otherworldly glow. His eyes widened in something approaching reverence as he gazed at the perfect cube nestled within—the true Tesseract, pulsing with energy that seemed to whisper across the millennia.
"And the Führer digs for trinkets in the desert," Schmidt said with quiet disdain.
He looked at the old man, who stared at the object with equal parts fear and awe.
"You have never seen this, have you?" Schmidt asked.
"It's not for the eyes of ordinary men," the Church Keeper replied.
"Exactly." Schmidt nodded, carefully closing the box. The unearthly light vanished, plunging the church back into shadow. He glanced toward the window, his expression almost distracted. "Give the order to open fire."
The lieutenant barked a command, and the distant boom of the tank's cannon reverberated through the stone walls. The old man lunged forward with unexpected strength, but two soldiers restrained him.
"Fool!" he spat, struggling against their grip. "You cannot control the power you hold. You will burn!"
Schmidt's hand moved with lightning speed, drawing his Luger and leveling it at the Church Keeper's head. "I already have."
The gunshot echoed through the church. The old man collapsed, blood spattering across Schmidt's HYDRA lapel pin, staining the tentacled skull a deeper crimson.
"Secure the artifact," Schmidt ordered, tucking his pistol away. "Prepare for immediate transport back to headquarters."
As his men hurried to comply, Schmidt carried the box to a small alcove away from prying eyes. He set it down on a flat stone that might once have served as an altar, opening it once more to bask in the Tesseract's glow.
"You've found it at last," came a voice from the shadows—a voice like gravel underfoot, both present and somehow distant. "Just as I promised you would."
Schmidt didn't turn. "Your information proved correct."
From the darkness, a tall figure emerged, dressed in an impeccable black suit that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the Tesseract's blue glow. His features were handsome but sharp, almost predatory, his eyes gleaming with an internal fire that matched the intensity of Schmidt's own.
"Of course it was correct," the figure replied, circling the alcove like a wolf. "I have waited centuries for someone with both the vision and the will to retrieve the cube." He stopped, regarding Schmidt with calculated interest. "And you, Johann Schmidt, are precisely such a man."
"The power it contains will transform HYDRA," Schmidt said, watching the cube pulse with energy. "The Reich's armies will seem like children with toys compared to what I will create."
"Indeed," the dark figure agreed with a thin smile. "And our arrangement continues as discussed? The souls of the fallen are mine to collect."
"A small price for immortality and power beyond human comprehension," Schmidt replied. "The war will provide you with more souls than you can imagine. Once I have harnessed the Tesseract, death will become an industrial product, manufactured on a scale never before seen."
A new voice joined their conversation—deeper, resonant, with an accent that seemed to predate modern language. "Do not forget your promises to me, Schmidt."
The air shimmered, and a third figure materialized—broader than the first, clad in what appeared to be ancient armor beneath a modern military greatcoat. His face remained in shadow, but his presence filled the small chamber with an almost suffocating pressure.
"I have not forgotten," Schmidt acknowledged with a slight bow. "The conflict you desire will spread across every continent. The Tesseract will ensure that this war never truly ends—it will simply evolve."
The armored figure moved closer, the dim light catching the metallic gleam of his armor beneath the coat. "War has always been humanity's natural state. I merely encourage what is already within you. But this—" he gestured to the Tesseract, "—this will elevate the art of conflict to heights not seen since the age of gods."
"Our trinity of purpose serves us all," the dark-suited figure interjected smoothly. "Schmidt receives power and immortality, I collect the souls produced by the slaughter, and you feed on the conflict generated. A most profitable arrangement."
Schmidt closed the box, shutting away the hypnotic blue light. "The Tesseract's energy will power weapons that will redefine warfare. HYDRA will create an empire that will last a thousand years, with me as its eternal ruler."
"Your ambition is admirable," the armored figure remarked, "if somewhat limited in scope. A thousand years is but a moment to beings such as us."
"I've had my fill of men like your Führer," the dark figure added, examining his perfectly manicured nails, "small men with smaller visions. But you, Schmidt... you see beyond nations and flags. You see power in its purest form."
"The Führer believes himself to be a god," Schmidt replied with contempt. "I intend to become one."
A HYDRA officer appeared at the entrance to the alcove, stopping short at the sight of Schmidt apparently speaking to empty air. "Herr Schmidt, the transport is ready."
Schmidt turned, his face betraying nothing. "Very good. We leave immediately."
When he looked back, his supernatural allies had vanished, leaving only lingering sensations—a whisper of smoke, the metallic tang of blood, and the distant sound of clashing swords. He placed the box containing the Tesseract into a specialized case, securing it with both mechanical locks and a numeric code.
As he walked from the ruined church tower toward the waiting vehicles, Schmidt's hand unconsciously touched his face, fingers tracing the contours that had once been handsome and were now a grotesque mask hiding a far more horrifying reality beneath. The price of his first experiment with power beyond human understanding was written in his flesh.
The case containing the Tesseract felt unnaturally light in his hand, as though the cosmic cube within were eager to be unleashed. Schmidt smiled. Power called to power.
And very soon, the world would answer to his.