After parting ways with Frank, Nick Fury slipped through the night to the Howling Commandos' base.
Fury's movements were always like this—elusive, as if he had no personal life, just popping up wherever his work demanded.
With his countless life-model decoys, his appearance anywhere was hardly surprising.
"Nick, what do you want now?"
Werewolf, his massive wolf head looming, glared at the suddenly appeared Nick Fury, his tone devoid of courtesy.
The moment Fury reached the base's entrance, Werewolf's keen nose had caught his scent.
His heightened sense of smell picked up every shift in the air.
The Howling Commandos were warriors, and they had little love for a man like Fury—always wary, always suspicious.
To Werewolf, Fury's presence meant one thing: trouble.
Especially after connecting with Dugan, even the barest shred of trust had been replaced by doubt.
Perhaps no one despised Hydra more than these old soldiers. The horrors they'd witnessed on the battlefield still turned their stomachs at the mere mention of Hydra's name.
Fury had already been branded a Hydra lackey in their eyes.
"I'm just here to check in, make sure you're still trustworthy."
Fury met Werewolf's gaze with his single eye, his demeanor open and unflinching.
Werewolf bared his fangs, his contempt for Fury palpable, especially under these circumstances.
"Now you've seen me. So what's your move?"
Werewolf faced off with Fury, his expression grim. He had no intention of letting Fury inside the base.
Even with just a wolf's head, the hostility was unmistakable.
The bared fangs and piercing eyes made Werewolf seem like a monster from a horror tale.
Fury raised his palms, as if to prove he meant no harm, but to Werewolf, the gesture was meaningless.
"I'm hoping you'll put in a bit more effort on your investigation. This is about something big."
Fury stopped there, unwilling to share classified details with the Commandos.
Suspicious minds always assume the worst, and such people rarely earn genuine trust.
Werewolf's face twisted into a snarl, as if he might lunge and tear Fury's head off at any moment.
Compared to this man, he trusted his old war buddy far more.
"I'll follow orders, but you'd better leave. Now."
The rancid breath from Werewolf's maw hit Fury full in the face, but he brushed it off.
The Howling Commandos were never easy to deal with. Since Midnight Vampire vanished, they hadn't had anyone suited for civil conversation.
Days slipped by unnoticed, and Rumlow was now on a plane heading back.
Hawkeye's expression remained calm. He'd grown used to the strangeness over these past days.
Like Rumlow, who was becoming more enigmatic, almost like the mountain's ghosts.
Though his suspicions grew with each passing day, Hawkeye kept his face a mask.
Trained to conceal his emotions, he didn't let them show, but Rumlow was acting oddly open, almost guileless.
The other team members stayed silent, keeping their thoughts to themselves.
As for the reckless fool's remains, they'd barely recovered anything.
Extracting tissue from a pulpy mess seeping into the earth was like panning for gold in the sea.
They'd considered collecting the soil, but the armed spirits put an end to that idea.
These team members weren't close to Rumlow to begin with, let alone Hawkeye, who was only known by reputation within S.H.I.E.L.D.
They had no voice in this squad. Obedience was their only role.
"Once we're back, you'll be the first one the Director calls in."
Hawkeye rested his arms on his knees, hands clasped tightly.
Though he didn't address Rumlow directly, everyone knew who he meant.
"Sounds about right."
Rumlow fiddled with the bracer on his wrist, acting unconcerned, which grated on Hawkeye.
His mission was a near-total failure. He hadn't identified the problem within the team, and his probing of Rumlow had yielded nothing.
Now, word was that Rumlow had passed his fifth trial. Every member of the squad had seen him pick up that bracer glowing with an orange sheen.
Questions swirled in their minds, but now wasn't the time to ask.
Especially since most of them lacked the standing to challenge Rumlow.
Having seen him fight, they knew they weren't on his level anymore.
Hit-Monkey perched outside the Textile Factory. Though Dugan had shifted focus away from the assassin network, this was one of the few places the monkey could go.
Hit-Monkey was a legend in the assassin world, one of its deadliest peaks.
Even the late Crossbones or the vigilante avenging his dog would have no confidence surviving Hit-Monkey's assassination.
The monkey's strength defied comprehension.
Inside the Textile Factory, a drama was unfolding. A rookie assassin was attempting to bring the organization down.
For Hit-Monkey, this was pure entertainment.
Watching his most hated group collapse was almost as satisfying as doing it himself.
The Textile Factory, holder of a High Table seat, crumbling because of a game—what a darkly absurd comedy.
Hit-Monkey loved theater, especially when it played out so spectacularly around him.
Clutching two pistols in its paws, the monkey picked off the panicked "actors" one by one.
No one was allowed to leave this performance early.
The young assassin, after a grueling fight, took down the cryptic, jabbering leader.
Hit-Monkey dialed a number, let out a rhythmic series of chirps, and left the scene.
The show was nearing its end, and the figure he'd hoped to see hadn't appeared. Time to regroup with his old partner and discuss next steps.
After everyone cleared out, a swift team of agents descended on the site. Though the Loom seemed destroyed, they meticulously gathered its remnants.
Pity Hit-Monkey didn't stick around. The monkey lacked a bit of patience.
(End of Chapter)
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