Chapter 9: The Harvest
Fifteen days passed in a blur of relentless data streams. When Talon finally opened his eyes and removed the neural interface helmet, it was with the staggering weight of another man's entire life and intellect compressed within his own mind. He had not just learned Arnim Zola's knowledge; he had absorbed his memories, his triumphs, his fears. The sheer, terrifying scope of the scientist's genius was humbling. The crown jewel was the Zola Algorithm, a predictive engine of such profound power it bordered on precognition. It was, for lack of a better word, divine.
He looked at the flickering screen that housed the last spark of the man he had just consumed. "Your algorithm can see the patterns of the past and future," Talon said, his voice raspy from disuse. "Why couldn't it foresee my true purpose?"
"The algorithm calculates probabilities, not certainties," Zola's voice replied, wearier and thinner than before. "And you... you are an anomaly. Your presence in this world is a variable it cannot parse. The data has no origin point."
A final, pragmatic thought occurred to Talon. This mind, even diminished, was a weapon. "I will still build you a new body," he offered. "Will you serve me then?"
A long, staticky sigh. "If I were to swear allegiance to you, the long arm of Hydra would eventually find me. My intellect is vast, but I am but one man against a hydra. I am sorry. Even if you destroy me now, I cannot agree."
The last vestige of hope for an alliance vanished. Talon's expression hardened. He had what he needed. The source code was redundant.
"Then your work is complete," Talon stated flatly. He donned the helmet once more. His consciousness, now a hybrid of his own will and Zola's methodologies, dove back into the mainframe. This was not a transfer; it was a purge. He bypassed the last firewalls, locating and seizing every hidden file, every encrypted scrap of data Zola had tried to withhold.
"Ah... so this was always the plan," Zola's voice murmured, not with anger, but with a strange, resigned acceptance. "To consume my legacy."
An hour later, it was done. Talon's mind was the sole repository of Arnim Zola's genius. With a final, coldly efficient command, he initiated a system wipe. The green, pixelated face on the monitor dissolved into a shower of static and then vanished into blackness. The hum of the massive computer banks faded into an eerie silence. The ghost was exorcised.
Talon removed the helmet for the last time, the cables slithering to the floor like dead snakes. He turned to Natasha, who had been his silent, watchful shadow for a fortnight. During that time, she had hunted, prepared food, and stood guard, a strange, unspoken truce existing between them.
"Thank you," he said, the words genuine. "For your assistance."
"I don't need your thanks," she replied, her arms crossed. "I need the truth."
"Very well. The truth is, I came here to acquire two things: Zola's genetic template and the sum total of his knowledge. I now possess both."
"And what did you learn?" she pressed, her gaze sharp.
"I learned a secret that will shake your world to its foundations," Talon said, meeting her eyes. "S.H.I.E.L.D. was not just infiltrated by Hydra. In many ways, Hydra built S.H.I.E.L.D. The organization you serve was founded on its rotten roots."
The color drained from Natasha's face. She took an involuntary step back, the professional composure shattering into raw, undisguised shock. This wasn't just intel; it was an attack on her identity, on the path of redemption she had carved for herself.
"Don't look so devastated," Talon said, a hint of unexpected pity in his voice. "The institution may be compromised, but the majority of its agents are good people fighting for the right cause. The cancer is just a few key individuals."
She stared at him, her eyes searching his for any sign of deception. "You're telling me the truth?"
"Why would I lie?"
"Then I will verify it," she stated, her voice regaining its steel. "And if I find you've manipulated me, S.H.I.E.L.D.—what's left of it—will burn you to the ground."
Talon simply shrugged. No good deed goes unpunished.
He spent the next hour methodically destroying the neural interface equipment with a sledgehammer, reducing it to unrecognizable scrap. The mainframe itself, now an empty shell, he left to history.
Back on the surface, the sunlight felt alien. He mounted his motorcycle, the engine roaring to life.
"Hey! Where do you think you're going?" Natasha called out, sprinting towards her own sleek sports car. "Wait for me!"
He twisted the throttle and sped away without a backward glance.
A frustrated sound escaped her lips. "You want to race?" she muttered, sliding behind the wheel. The powerful engine of her car answered with a guttural roar, and she shot after him, the vehicle handling the mountain curves with predatory grace.
She caught up to him easily, pulling alongside. "Talon! What is your problem?" she yelled over the wind.
His only response was to open the throttle wider, the motorcycle leaping forward and leaving her behind once more.
"Oh, you are on," she snarled, her competitive spirit fully ignited. The fact that he was the first man in years to so blatantly ignore her only added fuel to the fire.
He led her back into the city, where he rented a sparse apartment and immediately went to an electronics store, emerging with bags full of components. Natasha, now his self-appointed shadow, followed him inside.
For three days, she watched as he transformed the cluttered room into a makeshift workshop, soldering boards and assembling a bizarre, ugly contraption around a high-performance computer core.
"What is this supposed to be?" she finally asked, leaning against the doorway as he worked.
"A brain," he replied, not looking up. "My brain."
"You could have just asked for a server from S.H.I.E.L.D.," she said, a note of genuine concern in her voice. She had, inexplicably, started to care.
"The computers you know are toys. When this is finished, you'll understand."
"Okay," she said softly, watching the intense focus on his face. "I'll watch." She had to admit, a man consumed by a singular, powerful purpose was a compelling sight.
On the third day, it was complete: a tangled, inelegant nest of wires and processors, crowned by the same crude neural helmet.
Natasha couldn't help a small, teasing laugh. "This is your 'brain'? It's... unique."
"Function over form," he retorted, plugging the final cable into the core unit.
He placed the helmet on his head. A switch was flipped. The machine whirred to life, fans spinning, lights blinking in a complex rhythm. Talon's eyes closed. He wasn't using a keyboard or a screen; he was interfacing directly, pouring the vast, stolen architecture of the Zola Algorithm into the new system, refining it, stripping it of its creator's personality and imprinting his own will upon its core. He was not creating an AI; he was forging a loyal, digital extension of himself.
Three days later, he opened his eyes and took off the helmet. He looked at the machine.
"Primus."
A soft chime echoed in the room. A synthesized voice, clean and devoid of emotion, responded. "Awaiting your command, Master."
Natasha's hand flew to her mouth, her teasing smile gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated astonishment. "You... you actually did it."