Peter watched Bucky's face, seeing the internal struggle playing out. This was a man who'd been trained never to surrender, to fight to the last bullet and beyond. But it was also a man responsible for the lives of soldiers under his command.
More HYDRA troops emerged from concealment—dozens of them, all armed with the blue-glowing weapons. Several dragged portable cannons that hummed with the same otherworldly energy. There was no escape, no tactical advantage to exploit.
"Stand down," Bucky said finally, his voice heavy with defeat. "Drop your weapons."
The order went against every instinct; every piece of training they'd received. But as the soldiers reluctantly placed their rifles on the ground, Peter realized this was the only choice that kept them alive. Dead men couldn't escape, couldn't fight another day, couldn't warn Allied command about what they'd discovered.
HYDRA soldiers moved in with practiced efficiency, kicking weapons away and securing the prisoners with metal restraints that seemed far more advanced than standard military equipment. Peter winced as the cuffs closed around his wrists—they were heavier than they looked, and he could feel a slight vibration that suggested some kind of electronic locking mechanism.
"You will move," the squad leader commanded. "Any attempt to escape will result in immediate termination of the entire group."
They were marched through the forest in single file, HYDRA soldiers maintaining perfect formation around them. Peter tried to memorize their route, noting landmarks and terrain features, but the twisting path seemed designed to confuse prisoners. After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, they emerged into a clearing where several HYDRA vehicles waited.
The transport trucks were unlike anything in the standard German motor pool. Larger than conventional vehicles, with armor plating that bore the distinctive octopus skull insignia, and those same unsettling blue power conduits running along their sides. The very sight of them reinforced how far beyond normal warfare this conflict had evolved.
"Load them," ordered a HYDRA officer whose uniform bore additional insignia. "The facility is expecting delivery within the hour."
Peter found himself shoved into the back of a truck alongside Bucky, Ted, and several others. The interior was cramped and windowless, lit only by the eerie blue glow from the vehicle's power systems. Heavy metal benches lined both sides, with rings set into the floor where their restraints could be secured.
As the truck lurched into motion, Peter caught sight of Logan being loaded into another vehicle. The Canadian sergeant was conscious now but clearly wounded, his uniform torn and bloodstained. Yet something in the man's eyes suggested he wasn't broken—just biding his time.
The journey lasted several hours, winding through mountain roads that grew increasingly remote. Through the small windows near the driver's cab, Peter caught glimpses of terrain that seemed completely uninhabited—no villages, no farms, nothing that would appear on any Allied map.
"Where do you think they're taking us?" whispered Robert Frank from across the truck bed.
"Nowhere good," Dum Dum Dugan replied grimly. "These HYDRA bastards didn't go to all this trouble just to put us in a regular POW camp."
Ted had been unusually quiet during the transport, his analytical mind no doubt working through everything they'd witnessed. "The technology we've seen," he said finally, keeping his voice low. "It's decades ahead of anything either side should possess. Whatever HYDRA is really doing; it goes way beyond weapons research."
The British liaison officer shifted uncomfortably in his restraints. "My intelligence briefings mentioned rumors about German occult research. Things that sounded too mad to be true. After what we've seen today..."
He didn't need to finish the thought. They'd all witnessed weapons that seemed to violate the laws of physics, soldiers who moved with inhuman coordination, vehicles powered by energy sources that defied explanation. Whatever HYDRA had become; it was something far removed from conventional military science.
As the truck continued its journey into the mountains, Peter found himself thinking about Steve Rogers and wondering where his friend was at this moment. Steve's mysterious assignment with the SSR suddenly seemed less like a missed opportunity and more like a lifeline—someone who might eventually come looking for them when they failed to report back.
The truck finally ground to a halt, and they could hear the sound of massive gates opening. Through the small windows, Peter caught a glimpse of guard towers and searchlights, electrified fences and concrete barriers. This wasn't just a prison—it was a fortress.
"End of the line," came the electronically distorted voice of their guard.
The rear doors of the truck swung open, revealing a compound that looked like something from a nightmare. Stark concrete buildings squatted beneath floodlights, while guard towers equipped with energy weapons commanded overlapping fields of fire. The distinctive HYDRA emblem was everywhere—carved into walls, painted on vehicles, even incorporated into the architecture itself.
HYDRA soldiers formed up around the prisoners as they were unloaded, their weapons trained and ready. In the distance, Peter could see other prisoners in the compound—men wearing various Allied uniforms, all bearing the hollow-eyed look of soldiers who'd been broken by captivity.
"Move," commanded the guard, gesturing toward a large building that dominated the center of the compound.
As they were marched across the courtyard, Peter tried to memorize every detail of the facility's layout. Guard rotations, weapon placements, potential escape routes—anything that might prove useful if an opportunity presented itself. But the more he observed, the more hopeless their situation appeared.
The compound was clearly designed by people who understood both military tactics and prisoner psychology. Every angle was covered, every potential hiding spot eliminated. The energy weapons made conventional barriers unnecessary—anyone could be cut down instantly from hundreds of yards away.
They were processed through a reception area with ruthless efficiency. Personal effects confiscated, uniforms searched for hidden items, identifying information recorded by HYDRA personnel who worked with mechanical precision. Peter's custom camera was taken despite his protests—months of Kane's training and his first real mission, all reduced to evidence in a HYDRA file.
Finally, they were marched to a large barracks building and pushed inside. The interior was filled with Allied prisoners from multiple nations, their faces bearing various stages of defeat and despair. Some looked up hopefully as the new arrivals entered, perhaps hoping for news of rescue or victory. Others didn't even glance in their direction, lost in their own mental prisons.
Bucky quickly surveyed the layout—wooden bunks, small windows set too high to see out of, guards positioned at regular intervals outside. The British liaison officer found space near a wall where several other British soldiers were gathered. Logan was brought in separately, his wounds hastily bandaged but his eyes still alert and dangerous.
"Welcome to Camp C3," said a gaunt American soldier who approached them. His uniform indicated he'd been a lieutenant, though rank seemed meaningless here. "How long since you were captured?"
"Today," Bucky replied. "You?"
"Three weeks. Maybe four. Hard to tell in here." The man's voice carried the flat tone of someone who'd abandoned hope. "Name's Williams. 32nd Infantry. We got hit by those energy weapons during a recon mission near Bolzano."
Peter settled onto an empty bunk, his mind still reeling from the events of the day. This morning he'd been a soldier on his first real combat mission, confident in his training and eager to prove himself. Now he was a prisoner in a facility that seemed to exist outside the normal rules of warfare, facing an enemy whose capabilities defied understanding.
Around him, his fellow prisoners began the grim process of adapting to their new reality. Quiet conversations about families back home, speculation about rescue attempts that everyone knew were unlikely, desperate attempts to maintain military discipline in a situation that had stripped away their purpose and identity.
"What happens now?" Robert Frank asked, voicing the question that hung over all of them.
Williams shrugged with the defeated gesture of a man who'd stopped asking that question weeks ago. "Now we wait. And hope we're more valuable alive than dead."
As night fell over the compound, searchlights swept across the barracks windows, and the sound of marching guards echoed from the courtyard. Peter lay on his narrow bunk, staring at the ceiling and wondering what Kane would think of his first mission ending in capture.
—
ITALY - NOVEMBER 1943, FIVE MILES FROM THE FRONT
The makeshift stage looked pathetic in the pale Italian sunlight, its red, white and blue bunting hanging limp in the humid air. Steve Rogers stood center stage in his star-spangled costume, the shield balanced on his arm as he surveyed the sea of battle-hardened faces before him. These weren't the eager children and patriotic families he'd grown accustomed to over the past months. These were soldiers who'd seen hell and lived to tell about it.
"How many of you are ready to help me sock Old Adolf on the jaw?" Steve called out, forcing enthusiasm into his voice despite the dead silence that greeted him.
The hundreds of GIs stared back at him with expressions ranging from boredom to outright hostility. Mud-stained uniforms, thousand-yard stares, and bandages told the story of men who'd faced real combat while he'd been performing in theaters back home.
"Okay," Steve continued, his smile faltering slightly. "I need a volunteer."
A voice rang out from the crowd, sharp with sarcasm. "I already volunteered! How do you think I got here?"
Laughter rippled through the assembly, but it wasn't the warm, appreciative laughter Steve was used to. This was bitter, mocking.
"Bring back the girls!" another soldier shouted, and this time the laughter was louder, more pointed.
Steve's jaw tightened, but he pressed on. "I think they only know the one song, but I'll see what I can do."
"You do that, sweetheart!" came another voice, dripping with disdain.
"Nice boots, Tinker Bell!" someone else added, and Steve felt heat rise in his cheeks.
"Come on, guys, we're all on the same team here," he tried, but his words were lost in the growing chorus of boos and catcalls.
"Hey, Captain! Sign this!" A soldier near the front turned around and dropped his pants, mooning Steve to the delight of his comrades. "Bring back the girls!"
Steve raised his shield instinctively as a tomato came flying toward him, the overripe fruit splattering against the vibranium surface. The crowd roared its approval at this small victory over the supposed hero in the silly costume.
A guy standing near the edge of the crowd caught Steve's eye and shrugged sympathetically. "Don't worry, pal. They'll warm up to you. Don't worry."
But Steve could see it in their faces. They wouldn't warm up to him. To them, he was everything wrong with the war effort back home while they bled and died in foreign mud. He was the dancing monkey selling bonds while they fought the real fight.
The chant started small but grew rapidly: "Bring back the girls! Bring back the girls!" Soon the entire crowd was roaring it in unison, and Steve stood there in his red, white and blue costume feeling smaller than he had since before the serum.
—
The rain had started while Steve was packing up his props, turning the makeshift stage into a muddy mess that matched his mood perfectly. He sat on the edge of the platform in his heavy overcoat, trying to forget the humiliation of the past hour by losing himself in his sketchbook.
The drawing was taking shape nicely: a chimpanzee dressed in his Captain America costume, riding a unicycle while juggling. It seemed an appropriate metaphor for how he felt most days.
"Hello, Steve."
He looked up to see Peggy Carter approaching through the rain, her crisp uniform somehow managing to look pristine despite the weather. She moved with that characteristic confidence he remembered from their brief time together during the Project Rebirth procedure, though something in her expression suggested this wasn't a social call.
"Hi," he replied, hastily closing the sketchbook, but not quite quickly enough.
"Hi," she said, gesturing for him to remain seated as she stepped under the small overhang that provided minimal shelter from the drizzle. Her eyes caught sight of the pages he'd been working on as he shut the book. "May I?"
Steve hesitated for a moment, then handed over the sketchbook with a slightly embarrassed shrug. "Just some drawings to pass the time."
Peggy flipped through the pages with genuine interest, her eyebrows rising at the quality of the artwork. There were sketches of soldiers, landscapes, scenes from his various performances, and detailed character studies that showed real artistic talent. Then she stopped at a particular page, her expression shifting subtly.
It was a portrait of a young woman with kind eyes and a warm smile, rendered with the careful attention of someone who had memorized every detail of the subject's face.
"She's beautiful," Peggy said quietly, though her tone carried an undercurrent Steve couldn't quite identify. "Someone special?"
Steve felt heat rise in his cheeks as he recognized which drawing she'd found. "Just... a girl I met during the tour. In Philadelphia." He reached for the sketchbook, but Peggy continued studying the portrait with careful attention.
"She looks like she means quite a bit to you," Peggy observed, her voice carefully neutral though her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the book's edges.
"It wasn't... it was just one night," Steve said awkwardly, surprised by how defensive he sounded. "She was kind to me when most people just saw the costume. But I'm sure she's forgotten all about me by now." He managed a self-deprecating laugh. "Probably went back to her life and moved on. Can't imagine why she'd remember some guy in tights passing through town."
Peggy's eyes lingered on the sketch for another moment before flipping to the next page, the chimpanzee in the Captain America costume. The contrast between the two drawings was striking: one rendered with obvious affection and careful detail, the other a harsh self-commentary that revealed Steve's feelings about his current situation.
"You're quite talented," she said, handing the book back with what might have been forced casualness. "I had no idea you were an artist."
"Well, I went to art school for a while," Steve replied, tucking the sketchbook safely under his coat. "Had to quit when my mother died, though. Couldn't afford to keep going." He managed a rueful smile. "Funny thing about artists... we seem to have a knack for becoming either something great or the greatest evil. Hitler wanted to be a painter, you know. Got rejected from art school in Vienna. I just had to quit mine." He shrugged with self-deprecating humor. "Though I suppose the jury's still out on which category I'll end up in. Right now I'm leaning more toward 'guy in tights who gets tomatoes thrown at him.'"
Peggy's expression softened despite herself, though something still seemed guarded about her manner. "I hardly think you're in danger of following Hitler's path."
"Give me time," Steve said dryly. "Maybe if enough people keep booing my performances, I'll snap and try to take over Europe too." The joke fell a bit flat, but it seemed to ease some of the tension that had built up around the subject of his drawings.
The silence that followed stretched just a moment too long, and Steve found himself studying Peggy's face more carefully. There was something different about her demeanor since she'd seen the sketch... a subtle shift he couldn't quite place. Professional distance, maybe, or something more personal that she was trying to hide behind her usual composed facade.
"What are you doing here?" Steve asked, the question serving both his genuine curiosity and his desire to move past whatever awkwardness had settled between them.
"Officially, I'm not here at all," Peggy replied with a slight smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "That was quite a performance."
Steve's face reddened again at the reminder. "Yeah. I had to improvise a little bit. The crowds I'm used to are usually more twelve."
Peggy's expression softened slightly, though something still seemed guarded about her manner. "I understand you're 'America's New Hope.'"
"Bond sales take a 10% bump in every state I visit," Steve recited automatically, the statistic he'd heard Senator Brandt quote countless times over the past months.
"Is that Senator Brandt I hear?" Peggy asked, and there was something almost teasing in her tone, though it felt forced.
"At least he's got me doing this," Steve replied defensively. "Phillips would have had me stuck in a lab."
Before Peggy could respond, a clear, commanding voice cut through the rain.
"Forgive me, but is this truly how your people's greatest champion serves his nation?"
Steve turned to see four figures approaching through the drizzle. He immediately recognized one of them—Captain Steven Trevor, the pilot he'd met what felt like a lifetime ago. Trevor wore his Army Air Forces uniform, though it looked like it had seen some hard travel. Beside him walked a distinguished man in a perfectly tailored suit carrying an elegant walking stick, his posture suggesting European nobility.
But it was the two women who truly commanded attention. The speaker was tall and striking, with dark hair pulled back elegantly and wearing a simple navy blue dress that somehow looked regal on her. Despite the rain and mud, she moved with a fluid grace that spoke of both nobility and barely contained power. Her companion was older with dark hair streaked with silver, dressed in practical dark clothing that couldn't quite conceal her warrior's bearing.
The dark-haired woman's eyes held a mixture of disappointment and genuine confusion as she studied Steve's costume. "I had heard tales of America's champion, but what I witnessed just now..." She shook her head. "Dancing and jesting while the world burns around us. Surely there must be more to you than this performance?"
Steve blinked, recognizing her formal speech pattern but still taken aback by her directness. "I'm sorry, do we know each other? Trevor!" He turned to the familiar pilot. "What are you doing here? Last I heard, you were on some kind of classified mission."
"Steve, good to see you again," Trevor replied with a tired smile. "Though the circumstances could be better. I'd like you to meet some people who've become... essential to the war effort."
"This is Diana Prince," Trevor continued, gesturing to the dark-haired woman. "And Mala Prince, her cousin. They're from a Greek family that had extensive holdings in the northern mountains before the war displaced them. They witnessed HYDRA operations firsthand before being forced to flee."
The elegant man stepped forward with old-world courtesy. "Captain Nikolas Aquinas," he said, his accent carrying Mediterranean inflections. "I provided maritime transportation when Captain Trevor's original extraction was compromised."
Peggy had been studying the group with the sharp attention of an intelligence operative. "Agent Carter, SSR," she introduced herself. "How exactly did you all end up here?"
"It's a long story," Trevor said wearily. "But Diana and her cousin have information about HYDRA's capabilities that could change how we're fighting this war. They've seen weapons and tactics that go beyond anything we've prepared for."
Diana stepped closer to Steve, her expression serious but not unkind. "Captain Trevor has told me much about you, Steve Rogers. He spoke of your courage, your determination to serve despite the obstacles placed before you." Her voice carried genuine concern. "But what I see before me is a man trapped in a role that serves neither his gifts nor his people's true needs."
Steve felt his defensive walls rising automatically. "Look, Miss Prince, I appreciate the concern, but this uniform, this show—it matters. Bond sales fund equipment, medical supplies, ammunition for guys like Trevor here when they're out risking their lives."
"I do not question the value of those things," Diana replied gently. "But surely a man with your... unique capabilities could serve in ways that honor both your gifts and those material needs?"
Mala spoke for the first time, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd seen real combat. "We have witnessed weapons that reduce trained warriors to ash in moments. Enemies who move with inhuman coordination. Your people face threats that require more than conventional responses."
"Diana's right," Trevor interjected. "Steve, I've seen HYDRA's operations up close. They're using technology that seems impossible. Energy weapons that can disintegrate matter itself. Soldiers enhanced beyond normal human capabilities." He fixed Steve with a meaningful look. "The kind of threats that might require someone with enhanced capabilities of their own to counter."
Steve felt something stir in his chest—the same restless energy that had driven him to try to enlist five times, the same determination that had made him volunteer for the super-soldier program. But he pushed it down, remembering his orders, his duty.
"I serve where I'm told to serve," he said firmly. "This is what the Army needs me to do."
Diana's expression grew more intense, though not accusatory. "And what if what your army needs and what your people need are not the same thing? What if those who command you lack the vision to use your gifts properly?"
Before Steve could respond, Orion spoke up quietly. "In my experience, sometimes those in power prefer symbols they can control to heroes they cannot." His eyes met Steve's with something like understanding. "But symbols have their limits when faced with genuine darkness."
Trevor shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Peggy. "Speaking of darkness, I need to get my intelligence to Colonel Phillips immediately. What I discovered during my infiltration of the Ultra-Humanite's operations..." He shook his head grimly. "It's worse than we thought. HYDRA's capabilities go far beyond what anyone imagined."
Steve gestured toward the convoy of military vehicles pulling up to the medical tent nearby. "They look like they've been through hell," he observed quietly, watching wounded soldiers being unloaded from ambulances.
Diana's expression softened as she watched the casualties being carried to the medical tent. "These men more than most. I can see the shadow of those weapons upon them... wounds that go beyond mere flesh."
Peggy's expression grew grim, her professional focus returning. "These men more than most," she confirmed. "Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano. Two hundred men went up against him, and less than 50 returned. Your audience contained what was left of the 107th. The rest were killed or captured."
The words hit Steve like a physical blow. "The 107th?"
"What?" Peggy asked, noting the sudden change in his expression and the way all color had drained from his face.
Steve was already standing, his sketchbook tumbling to the muddy ground. All thoughts of performances and bond sales disappeared entirely. All that mattered now was a single, terrible possibility.
"Come on," he said, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion. "All of you. Colonel Phillips needs to hear everything you know about HYDRA's capabilities. And I need to know about the 107th."
Diana watched the transformation that came over Steve as concern for his fellow soldiers overrode everything else. For the first time since arriving, she saw something that resembled the warrior she'd hoped to find... not in his theatrical performance or defensive arguments about bond sales, but in the raw determination that appeared when those under his protection were threatened.
Perhaps Captain Trevor had been right about this man after all. The true test would come when he was finally given the chance to act on that protective instinct rather than merely perform it on a stage.