Hydra Siberian Facility Zeta-9
January 19, 2001 – 02:18 Hours
The stolen boots echoed like gunshots against the sterile steel of the corridor. Every step was a defiance of death. Chimera kept his head low, his breath shallow beneath the half-mask. The tinted goggles blurred the harsh fluorescents above, while the rebreather muffled each inhale, too fast, too sharp.
Ahead loomed Sector Delta-7—Hydra's inner armory. A vault within a vault. If salvation existed anywhere in Zeta-9, it lay behind that reinforced bulkhead: weapons, thermal suits, access codes to the surface. His freedom. His survival.
But Hydra was no longer asleep.
Moments earlier, Petrov's voice had growled over the PA like the hiss of a tightening noose:
"Lockdown Protocol Alpha. All personnel report positions. Unauthorized movement will be met with lethal force."
The hunt had escalated.
The Biometric Gauntlet
The Delta-7 bulkhead stood like a tomb door—black metal, twelve inches thick, laced with tungsten reinforcements. Beside it, a biometric console glowed with sterile menace. A keypad. A palm scanner. A retinal reader. No guards. No override panel. Just cold, impersonal precision.
He approached slowly.
No mistakes. Not here.
Chimera swiped the stolen keycard clipped to his belt.
ACCESS GRANTED: ROSTOV, Y.
ID #7743 | CLEARANCE: GAMMA-3
A mechanical click. The keypad lit up, unlocking the next sequence. The palm scanner activated, its blue surface glowing with hungry light.
Chimera stared at it, throat dry.
This part wasn't just about disguise. It was molecular.
Rostov's fingerprints. Unique to the micrometer.
He placed his reshaped hand against the glass and closed his eyes, reaching inward.
Will it.
The ridges on his fingertips tingled. Whorls deepened. Sweat pooled between his shoulder blades.
The scanner hummed. A red laser swept across his palm.
Then—
VERIFICATION FAILED
ACCESS DENIED – CLEARANCE: GAMMA-4 REQUIRED
His breath caught.
Wrong tech. Wrong identity.
Panic surged like electricity up his spine.
He rifled through memory—Senior Technician Borodin, the man Rostov often bickered with. Gamma-4. Higher clearance. Slight limp. Burn scar across the first knuckle of his right index finger. The voice, rougher. Older. His gait like he'd been hit by shrapnel.
Chimera pressed his back to the wall, gritting his teeth.
Change. Again.
He focused on the shape of Borodin's right hand. The old scar. The spacing of the knuckles. The subtle aging in the joints. His hand twisted, reshaped—tendons stretching, joints snapping softly under his skin.
He swiped a new card—one he'd stolen off Borodin days ago when pretending to be asleep during a cleaning cycle.
ACCESS GRANTED: BORODIN, I.
ID #6612 | CLEARANCE: GAMMA-4
Step two.
The retinal scanner extended from the console, blinking red.
No mask this time. No room to fake optics behind a visor.
He ripped off the goggles and rebreather, exposing his face to the cold and to the machine's scrutiny. The scanner's beam stabbed into his exposed eyes, digging like hot wire. His body tensed. Muscles trembled.
Shift the eyes.
From mercury silver to dull brown. Muddy. Tired. A technician's eyes.
He visualized the pigment cells churning, reshaping the irises like a kaleidoscope shifting under pressure.
The scanner hesitated.
A shrill hum.
A flicker of yellow.
Then—
[PROCESSING...]
Sweat slid down Chimera's temple.
[MATCH CONFIRMED – GAMMA-4 RETINA ACCEPTED]
WELCOME, TECHNICIAN BORODIN
Click.
The vault's magnetic locks disengaged with a deep, resonant thud. The door began to slide open.
Chimera stepped back into shadow.
WARNING: ANOMALY DETECTED
Red lights burst into strobe flashes overhead. A siren began to pulse through the floor, low and rhythmic—like a heartbeat made of dread.
WARNING: BIOMETRIC ANOMALY DETECTED.
The vault's bulkhead groaned open. Steam hissed from hydraulic seals.
Chimera froze.
The Armory Master
He came like a myth—a nightmare carved in scar and iron.
Volkova.
Hydra's Armory Master. Ex-Spetsnaz. Veteran of a dozen black ops wars. The man was more shrapnel than flesh. Bald. Towering. One eye gone, replaced by a mangled ruin. The other glinted beneath a brow like a ledge of stone.
He stood in the doorway like a war monument, wrapped in a black leather apron scorched with gunpowder burns and old blood. A plasma cutter whined in his fist, its cherry-red tip glowing like a brand. Heat shimmered around it.
"Borodin?"
The name was a question—and a warning.
Volkova's voice ground like tank treads over gravel. He took a step forward, boots ringing against the metal deck.
"You look like death thawed out. And your retinal scan just tripped my perimeter."
He sniffed the air.
"You smell wrong. Like ozone... and cryo-fluid."
Chimera hunched instinctively. Shifted his posture. Limped.
Borodin's limp.
His voice came thin and wheezy, coated in fake fatigue:
"Faulty reader, sir. Like the dampers in Gamma. Petrov sent me—surface recon. Need an ice kit and a Pulsar. Urgent."
A beat.
The hum of plasma between them.
Volkova didn't blink.
"Petrov sent you?"
He chuckled, dry and humorless.
"Borodin cries when snowflakes land on his boots."
His single good eye dropped to Chimera's hands.
They were still mid-shift—fingertips subtly reshaping, mimicking Borodin's old solder burns. Close, but not perfect. Not fast enough.
Volkova didn't look convinced.
"Hands. Show me."
Chimera held them out, palms open.
Volkova stepped closer. Too close.
Then—
His eye narrowed. Something caught in the reflection of the visor.
A single strand of silver hair had fallen loose from beneath Chimera's helmet.
Volkova's lip curled.
"Suka blyad."
Whore's son.
He roared like a bear in winter.
"The pod rat!"
The plasma cutter surged forward—aimed for Chimera's face.
III. Cryo-Chamber Crucible
Chimera didn't hesitate.
He dove sideways, rolling into the armory just as the cutter hissed past his head, spraying molten sparks across the corridor wall.
He landed hard—knees cracking against cold steel.
The armory was a cathedral of death.
Rows of pulse rifles gleamed like fangs in the low light. Grenades lined the walls like altar offerings. Crates stamped HIGH-YIELD PLASMA were stacked to the ceiling, humming faintly with locked energy.
And deeper still—
At the rear of the chamber, half-shrouded in fog, stood the cryo-pods.
Dozens of them.
Frost bled from their seals, painting spectral patterns on the floor. Glass lids shimmered. Red standby lights blinked in slow rhythm.
Inside one, Chimera caught a glimpse of a face—pale. Emotionless.
Painted across the viewport: a black star.
WS-04.
Winter Soldier Program.
More monsters, he thought.
More like me.
The plasma cutter sizzled again—this time carving a molten trail into the wall beside him.
Volkova had followed. Moving faster than a man his size should. The weapon in his hand hummed with killing heat.
Chimera scrambled for the nearest rack. His hand found a shock baton, and he swung it up just in time to catch the next blow.
The plasma cutter slammed against it with a flash of sparks. The baton overloaded, its charge surging through Chimera's arm like lightning.
His body screamed.
ADVANTAGE: VOLKOVA.
STRENGTH RATIO: 1:3.
WEAPON EFFICIENCY: 17%.
The Stark voice in his mind—cold, calculating—didn't care that he was hurting. It only measured probability. Failure.
Chimera rolled behind a stack of weapons crates as Volkova advanced, swinging the cutter in heavy arcs that left scorch marks on the floor. The heat pressed against Chimera's skin even through the vest.
You're not stronger. You have to be faster.
He moved defensively, ducking low, dodging wide. One of Volkova's backhands caught him across the shoulder and sent him crashing into a cryo-pod.
Glass cracked.
Frost seared his cheek.
He gasped, body sliding down the pod's curved surface.
Inside—another face. Another ghost. A girl this time. Asian features. Shaved head. Eyes closed. Labeled AE-05.
He barely had time to process.
Volkova towered above him now. Breathing hard. Cutter raised.
"Time to die, ghost."
And then—
THUD.
The Unstable Skin
A sound echoed through the chamber—
A fist against steel.
Loud. Mechanical. Alive.
Chimera's head snapped toward the source.
WS-07.
Its status light flickered on the cryo-chamber:
STASIS → ACTIVE
Volkova froze mid-swing. His one eye wide with disbelief.
"Impossible... stasis integrity—"
Chimera moved.
Not with the baton—with his hand.
He spun to WS-03, jamming bloodied fingers into its access port. A jolt of Stark-born feedback surged through the interface. Sparks exploded from the console.
Emergency fail-safes kicked in.
Vents blasted freezing nitrogen across the chamber.
Volkova shrieked, clawing at his blinded face.
Chimera leapt, grabbing a compact pulse pistol from a nearby crate. The metal felt hot against his trembling fingers.
Behind him—
BOOM.
WS-07's hatch exploded outward.
The glass shattered in all directions.
A figure stumbled from the mist—
Tall. Gaunt. Bare-chested.
Hair black and matted with ice.
Eyes glowing an unnatural, feral blue.
It sniffed the air.
Then it roared.
A nightmare let loose.
It lunged—
Straight for Volkova.
Chimera flung himself back. His body seized. Pain ignited in his neck, spine, chest—like something ripping inside him. His vertebrae twisted, snapping back into his original form. The borrowed height collapsed.
His silver hair spilled free from the helmet.
His skin glistened with sweat.
The Borodin disguise was dying.
METABOLIC CRASH IMMINENT
SHAPESHIFT SUSTAINABILITY: 4%
He stumbled, half-blind, toward a safety decon unit tucked in the corner. The Winter Soldier crashed into Volkova behind him with a sound like collapsing scaffolding.
The scream that followed wasn't human.
Chimera slammed himself into the decontamination stall, locking the door behind him. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead as he collapsed against the cold wall.
Outside—
The sound of metal tearing.
Of bone breaking.
Of guts hitting floorplates.
A plasma cutter clanged against steel. Useless. Detached.
Volkova's arm, maybe.
Chimera stared at his reflection in the polished interior of the door.
Silver hair.
Mercury eyes.
The Hydra uniform, now loose and bloodstained.
He wasn't Borodin.
He wasn't anyone Hydra could control.
But he still needed to survive.
He reached for the stolen comm unit, forcing his voice through torn vocal cords. His larynx burned. Each word was pain made sound.
"ALL UNITS. ARMORY SECURED. POD ESCAPEE NEUTRALIZED. STAND DOWN. REPORT TO GAMMA HUB FOR DEBRIEF."
Petrov's voice.
Perfect modulation. The same cold tone. The same dead cadence.
He held his breath.
For a moment—silence. A chance.
Then the real voice bled across the PA, sharper than frostbite:
"IGNORE FALSE COMMAND. IMPOSTER IN DELTA-7. TERMINATE ON SIGHT. AIM FOR THE SPINE."
Chimera's breath caught. They knew.
They were coming.
Whispers in the Storm
CLANG.
A panel near the floor popped open—barely waist-high.
Out rolled a figure—fast, panicked.
A young woman.
Grease-streaked face. Eyes wide and wild. Jumpsuit half-unzipped over a torn undershirt. Her breath came in frantic bursts.
"This way!" she hissed. "Unless you wanna be Winter Soldier chow!"
She motioned into the access tunnel behind her—an old maintenance duct, maybe. Hidden. Narrow.
Chimera stared at her.
Lena.
He remembered her from observation glass. A junior tech. Barely out of her teens. Used to whistle badly while working on coolant valves. Harmless. Forgettable.
Now, her face was streaked with terror.
And maybe—hope?
He hesitated.
Trap?
Another layer of Petrov's hunt?
Or—
Had someone, somewhere, cracked just enough under the weight of guilt?
He glanced back.
Volkova was gone. Or what was left of him. The Winter Soldier crouched over the body like a wolf over a kill. Its chest heaved. Steam rose off its bare skin. It hadn't noticed him—yet.
You don't get two chances in this place.
Chimera turned—
And followed Lena into the dark.
Sparks in the Dark
Lena's hand closed around Chimera's wrist—tight, urgent.
Warmth.
Real. Human.
But his Stark-enhanced senses flared with warning.
BIOSIGNATURE ANOMALY DETECTED.
TELEPATHIC EMISSION: LOW-LEVEL. SOURCE: CONTACT POINT.
He twitched. Instinct screamed danger, but something about her touch calmed the storm within him. Like static before a transmission. Like his thoughts were no longer alone.
"You're not bleeding right."
The words weren't spoken. They were felt. Echoed.
They dove into the maintenance shaft as WS-07 slammed full-force into the decontamination shower. The reinforced door buckled inward. Steel shrieked.
Behind them, the sound of fury. Ahead—only dark.
They crawled, elbows scraping rusted grates, boots sliding over old wiring and insulation fluff. The tunnel smelled like old coolant, dust, and death.
Then—
Lena shoved something into his hand.
Paper. Crumpled. Smudged. Real.
He blinked at it, confused for a heartbeat. Then the shape resolved in the dimness:
A map. Sketched hastily in pen. Marked with red lines and faded ink. In the corner, half-erased by sweat and age, glowed a symbol he hadn't seen in years—
The eagle of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Chimera froze.
"My father hid it," Lena panted beside him. "Maintenance tech. He was loyal. To Fury. Hydra found out. They made it look like an accident."
Her breath hitched. But her eyes, when they met his—they didn't waver.
"I've been waiting. For something. For someone. And then... I felt you. Screaming. In the ducts."
His breath caught.
"You're not one of them," she whispered. "You're Chimera."
The name fell like a key into a lock.
Noah. Stark. Mutant. Ghost. Chimera.
He didn't speak. Just nodded, once.
Behind them, far down the shaft, they heard the cry.
The Winter Soldier.
A deep, warping howl of something ancient and broken waking up angry.
VII. Sigma Protocol
Above them, the facility shook.
Boom.
Somewhere near the server hub, a bulkhead slammed shut.
A second later, the PA system hissed to life—sharp and jagged like a broken tooth.
Petrov's voice.
Too calm. Too cold.
"LOCKDOWN PROTOCOL SIGMA. SEAL ALL SECTORS. NO ONE EXITS."
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Sector seals engaged like thunder. Hydraulic blast doors shut throughout the complex. Lights flickered. The duct groaned as pressure equalized.
They were rats now—trapped in Hydra's final maze.
Lena grabbed his hand again. Her fingers were trembling. But she didn't stop.
"The old access shaft is three levels down. It leads to an outpost tunnel—S.H.I.E.L.D. left it years ago. Hydra buried it, but not deep enough."
"Why help me?" Chimera rasped.
Lena looked at him in the dark.
"Because my father told me to. And because…"
She reached down—
And gasped.
"Your blood—it's glowing."
Chimera followed her gaze.
A jagged cut along his forearm, torn open during the earlier fight, was leaking light.
Not red. Not human.
Liquid sapphire seeped from the wound, pulsing faintly with every heartbeat.
The blue shimmer revealed faint circuitry beneath his skin—like bio-filaments woven into muscle. Stark-tech. Mutant DNA. Hydra splicing. Something unstable.
"It's... calling something," Lena whispered.
Far behind them—
The Winter Soldier howled again.
Louder.
Closer.