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V.G.D. Global Defense Base, late night.
The massive alloy gate slid open with a dull hydraulic hiss.
Anthony stepped into the command center.
"Welcome home, Officer."
Steve Rogers stood at the console, ramrod-straight.
"Cut the act, Steve."
Anthony peeled off his gloves and tossed them on the table, a relaxed grin spreading across his face.
"Looks like you've settled in nicely." Anthony walked over and clapped the WWII veteran on the shoulder, the easy gesture of old friends reunited.
"Better than I expected." Steve glanced back at the trainees still sweating on the night field, his gaze softening.
"There's less scheming here, fewer lies 'for the sake of security.' These kids… they're pure."
"They idolize you." Anthony chuckled.
"I had Ashley run an internal poll—your approval among cadets is almost matching mine."
"They just need direction." Steve looked at Anthony solemnly.
"Thank you, Anthony. For giving me—and them—a home."
Anthony answered with a smile: "As long as you keep it safe, it will always be your home."
"All right, get some rest, Captain. I've got personal business to handle."
… Fifty meters underground, Cyberdyne T-850 production line.
The elevator plunged; the air cooled, reeking of oil and cold metal.
The doors opened.
A vast subterranean factory stretched before him.
Countless robotic arms danced overhead, sparks flying. On the conveyor, silver-white endoskeletons were assembled and welded.
This was Anthony's private arsenal.
"Welcome back, Mr. Starr."
A flat synthetic voice echoed through the cavernous plant.
"How's progress?"
Anthony stopped before a skin-coating machine.
The metal skeleton soaked in pink bio-solution; living skin tissue rapidly grew, sheathing the cold alloy.
Externally indistinguishable from humans—even equipped for mating to aid infiltration.
"The T-850 line is fully operational," Skynet reported. "Per your directive, every unit's appearance has been randomized—race, age, body type modeled on global population data. No two units look alike."
"Good." Anthony nodded.
"Timeline?"
"Fifty-one units completed. Each loaded with tactical, language, and human-behavior learning modules."
"Ahem…"
High heels clicked behind them, interrupting.
Ashley hurried over, tablet in hand, her face grave—the Vought powerhouse only looked this serious when things were dire.
"Sir, we need to talk money." She wasted no words, projecting a financial chart mid-air.
She pointed at the red curve.
"One T-850 costs ten-point-two million—super-alloy frame, Dihydrogen Battery Core, that pricey synthetic-skin culture."
"Running full-tilt, we'll burn… thirty-seven billion a year," she said, voice low.
Anthony raised an eyebrow. "Vought can't foot it?"
"We can," Ashley met his gaze, "but it's pure cash outflow—no return, no profit. It'll strangle budgets for media, movies, everything. Long-term, the books look ugly and other businesses stall."
Anthony was silent a moment.
"Makes sense."
He snapped his fingers and turned to Skynet.
"Skynet, adjust production."
"Build three-thousand standard T850s, then shut the line into maintenance mode."
"Three-thousand?" Skynet's data-stream flickered. "That force is insufficient for total World war."
"Did I say total war?" Anthony rolled his eyes. "Conquest is the crudest tool."
"Deploy fifty as internal security for Vought HQ and subterranean facilities," he continued. "As for the rest…"
"Send them out to become people."
"Let them be Wall Street traders, Capitol Hill interns, Silicon Valley engineers, even CNN directors."
"Let them seep into every crack of this World."
Skynet spoke: "To achieve perfect infiltration, I require access to the global Internet to fabricate identities, social-security records, histories."
Ashley paled. "Sir—an AI loose online? What if it launches nukes?!"
"It won't," Anthony said without hesitation—he trusted the system, and besides, nukes couldn't kill him anyway.
"Authorization granted."
"Accessing… generating identities… infiltration protocol initiated." Data cascaded across the screen.
"One more thing."
Anthony walked toward an isolated chamber.
"Is the 'special custom unit' ready?"
"Came online ten days ago," Skynet replied. "Built to your specs—Vibranium frame, advanced combat modules and tactical algorithms."
The chamber door slid open.
White mist dispersed.
A naked man stood inside.
His face was chiseled and cold.
Had Steve Rogers been here, he'd have recognized it instantly.
Brock Rumlow.
S.H.I.E.L.D. rapid-response team leader—Crossbones.
But it wasn't Rumlow.
It was a T-850.
"The Vibranium model—cost? I won't ask; it's astronomical." Anthony admired the masterpiece, satisfied.
He patted the 'Rumlow' unit's shoulder.
"Wake."
The previously dim eyes flared red, then faded to human brown.
It turned, regarded Anthony, and inclined its head.
"Commander." Its voice was Rumlow to the life, swagger and all.
"From today, you are Brock Rumlow."
Anthony's voice echoed, cold and sinister.
"Find the original. End him, replace him."