Humiliation.
Raw, naked humiliation.
It ignited something feral inside Brock Rumlow. He was Crossbones—S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top-tier field commander. He wasn't raised on fear.
"Die, you fake!!"
Rumlow roared, yanking a backup combat knife from his boot and charging.
He refused to believe it.
Close-quarters combat was his domain. He'd survived more than a decade in the dirt—he didn't flinch now.
They collided in an instant.
Fists howled through the air. Legs snapped and swept.
Rumlow whipped a brutal roundhouse toward the double's temple.
The copy didn't dodge.
It took the kick head-on—its head snapping sideways—then, in the very next heartbeat, mirrored the motion. Same stance. Same angle.
BAM!
Rumlow was sent flying, smashing into the wall.
Gritting his teeth, he staggered up and stabbed for the ribs—sharp, vicious, lethal.
The copy still didn't evade.
It let the blade sink in, then caught Rumlow's wrist—studying the force, the leverage.
Then it twisted.
CRACK!
Rumlow's left arm snapped like dry wood.
"AAARGH!!"
His scream echoed through the safehouse.
The next five minutes became the longest nightmare of his life.
He threw everything he had.
Every killing move. Every dirty trick. Every tactical instinct.
Gunfire. Explosives. Even teeth.
It didn't matter.
Whatever Rumlow did, the monster repeated it a second later—cleaner, faster, stronger—and sent it back at him.
It was learning.
Rumlow broke.
Bloodied, shaking, he collapsed against the wall, gasping. In his hand—his last card: a high-explosive grenade.
His eyes locked onto the copy, madness creeping in.
When the duplicate "Rumlow" stepped closer, he didn't hesitate.
He pulled the pin.
"Okay, baby… let's go together."
BOOOOOOM!!!
Fire swallowed the room.
The blast tore the roof apart, flames punching skyward.
-----
From the inferno—
A figure walked out slowly.
Most of its synthetic skin had burned away, revealing a cold, silver gleam beneath—a vibranium endoskeleton. Its cybernetic eye glowed crimson in the flames.
It bent down and picked up a metal tag that had somehow survived.
Rumlow's dog tag.
…
Mission Report:
Original unit Brock Rumlow: TERMINATED.
Identity synchronization rate: 99.8%.
The encrypted transmission reached Antony.
"Good work," Antony replied calmly. "Update mission parameters."
Directive confirmed:
Infiltrate. Protect Alexander Pierce and Hydra core assets as needed.
In the underground facility, the restored "Rumlow" stood up. The red glow in his eyes faded into perfectly human brown.
He straightened his tactical vest in front of a mirror, flashing that familiar crooked grin.
"Back to work."
"I have a question, Commander," Skynet interjected.
"According to data analysis, Hydra is a terrorist organization that achieves its goals through chaos. Its ideology fundamentally conflicts with Vought International's system."
"In short—they are your enemy."
"Why not eliminate them entirely? Why allocate resources to protect them?"
Antony smiled.
"Skynet, you may have all of humanity's knowledge—but you don't understand humanity."
"If a man is starving, he has only one desire: food."
"Once he's full… he starts wanting more."
Antony's smile turned cold.
"The same applies here."
"If someone gets beaten every day—lives in fear—his demands are simple.
Just don't hit me."
"As long as you protect him, he'll give you everything."
"But if no one hits him anymore?"
"He gets picky."
"He complains your cape is too dark.
That your heat vision is too hot.
That you didn't smile while saving him."
"He starts judging his savior."
Antony turned, spreading his arms as if embracing the flawed world itself.
"That's why the world needs Hydra."
"When people hear gunfire at midnight and tremble, they miss Homelander's embrace."
"When those three helicarriers point their cannons at their foreheads, they finally understand—
Vought's bill isn't expensive at all."
-----
Somewhere in an abandoned air-defense bunker—
The air smelled of mold and rust.
Several figures sat around a battered tactical table.
"This place is trash."
Sam Wilson gnawed on a ration bar, scowling at the peeling walls.
"Worse than the foxholes I slept in Afghanistan. S.H.I.E.L.D. has tons of safehouses—couldn't we get one with hot water?"
"Be grateful you've got a roof, rookie," Natasha Romanoff said coolly, cleaning her Glock. Her red hair was messy, but her presence razor-sharp.
"No cameras. No network. Satellites barely touch this place. For us right now, this is a five-star hotel."
In the corner, Clint Barton tuned his bow in silence, occasionally glancing toward the door.
"Who's he waiting for?" Sam whispered, nudging Natasha.
"Steve Rogers," she replied without looking up. "Seems Captain America finally made up his mind."
"You mean Captain Rogers?" Sam lit up. "Did I ever tell you about that time we went jogging—"
"Yes," Natasha cut in. "About eight hundred times. On your left. We know."
"That was history!" Sam protested. "That's Captain America!"
Just then—
Creak.
The door opened.
Steve Rogers stepped inside. Dusty. Tired. Eyes sharp as ever.
"Cap."
Sam jumped up first, grinning like a fanboy.
"I knew you'd come."
Steve smiled back—exhausted, but genuine.
"Sam… sorry for dragging you into this."
"Don't be," Sam shrugged. "Retirement's boring. I needed the exercise."
Steve nodded, then looked at Natasha and Clint.
"Looks like the Avengers haven't disbanded after all."
"Barely holding together," Natasha said, hopping off the table.
"Or maybe I should go work for Vought too. At least the pay's good."
--------------
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