Chapter 4
The North Atlantic was a churning cauldron of black water and ice, but three thousand feet below the surface, the ocean was eerily still. "The Raft"—a facility designed to hold the world's most dangerous anomalies—had been repurposed. It wasn't a prison anymore; it was an incubator.
Aron Stark didn't need a submarine. He plummeted through the water column, his body generating a localized cavitation bubble that allowed him to slice through the pressure like a torpedo. Behind him, Tony in the Mark IV and Bucky in a specialized deep-sea tactical rig followed the trail of displaced silt.
They're trying to rewrite him, Aron thought, his jaw tightening. Raphael, find the weak point in the structural integrity.
Aron reached the base. He didn't punch it; he simply placed his palm against the reinforced steel. He felt the vibrations of the massive turbines within. With a thought, he released a Micro-Vibration Burst. The steel didn't shatter—it turned to powder.
He stepped inside, the water rushing in behind him until the emergency bulkheads slammed shut. He stood in a dimly lit corridor, the walls pulsing with a sickly yellow light.
"Tony, Bucky—you have five minutes before the backup generators kick in," Aron said into the comms. "Go for the armory. I'm going for the Captain."
The central chamber was a cathedral of forbidden science. In the middle of the room, Steve Rogers was suspended in a glass cylinder filled with amber fluid. Cables were snaked into his temples, glowing with that same rhythmic, yellow light.
Standing before the pod was a man Aron recognized from the archives: Arnim Zola, or at least, the digital ghost of him housed within a primitive but lethal robotic frame.
"Aron Stark," Zola's voice crackled through speakers. "The anomaly. The 'Perfected' one. You are a fascinating specimen. We were going to wait for you to come to us, but this... this is better."
"Let him go, Zola," Aron said, walking forward. The floor tiles cracked under his weight.
"He is not the Captain America you remember," Zola chirped. "He is the First Soldier of the New World Order. A man of honor, yes, but honor to the true masters of Earth."
The glass shattered.
Steve Rogers stepped out of the fluid. His eyes weren't the clear, piercing blue of the hero from the history books; they were a dull, glowing amber. He didn't reach for his shield. He reached for a combat knife and a pulse pistol.
"Captain?" Aron asked, stopping ten feet away.
Steve didn't answer. He moved with a speed that surpassed the records. He was a blur of blue and silver, closing the gap in a heartbeat. He lunged, the knife aimed with lethal precision at Aron's carotid artery.
Aron caught the wrist. The impact vibrated through his arm. Steve was stronger than he should have been—the Mind Stone energy was overcharging his muscles.
"Steve, look at me," Aron commanded.
Steve responded with a brutal headbutt. It would have shattered a normal man's skull. Against Aron, it sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil. Steve didn't flinch; he simply transitioned into a low sweep, trying to take Aron's legs out.
Aron parried a series of strikes. He wasn't fighting back; he was observing. Every time Steve moved, Aron saw the tragedy of it. The man out of time, being used as a puppet.
"Sorry about this, Cap," Aron said.
He slipped past Steve's guard, his hand moving like a snake. He tapped the back of Steve's neck. A small spark of blue bio-electricity jumped from Aron's finger into the Captain's spine.
Steve stiffened. The amber light in his eyes flickered and died. He collapsed into Aron's arms, his breathing heavy and ragged.
"Target secured," Aron said.
"Not quite," Zola's voice boomed. "If we cannot have the symbol, we will have the data."
The floor beneath them began to vibrate. From the shadows, four "Super-Soldiers"—failures of the early Hydra experiments, twisted and hulking—emerged. They weren't men anymore; they were walls of muscle and rage, their skin grey and leather-like.
Aron laid Steve gently on the floor. He turned to the hulking monstrosities. He didn't wait for them to roar. He took a single step, and the sheer pressure of his aura caused the grey-skinned giants to stumble.
"You're the old world," Aron said.
He moved. He wasn't a blur; he was a phantom. Each strike he delivered didn't just hurt—it dismantled. He hit the first one in the chest, and the shockwave liquefied the creature's internal structure instantly. He grabbed the second by the throat and tossed it through the reinforced glass of the observation deck.
The third and fourth lunged together. Aron reached out and caught them both by their heads. He slammed them together with a sound like a thunderclap.
Silence returned to the chamber.
"A... Aron?"
He turned. Steve was sitting up, rubbing his neck. His eyes were clear now, filled with a deep, crushing confusion. He looked at the robotic frame of Zola, then at the modern facility, and finally at Aron.
"Where... where am I?" Steve asked. "The plane... the ice..."
"The war ended seventy years ago, Steve," Aron said, reaching out a hand. "But a new one just started. And we need you."
Steve took the hand. As he stood, the doors burst open. Tony and Bucky stepped in, Bucky's eyes widening as he saw the man he thought he'd lost forever.
"Steve?" Bucky whispered.
Steve Rogers froze. He looked at the man in the tactical suit, at the silver arm, and at the face that had haunted his dreams in the ice. "Bucky?"
The two men didn't embrace—not yet. There was too much trauma, too much time between them. But the bond was there, a tether in the storm.
"We have to go," Tony said, looking at his sensors. "Zola initiated a self-destruct. This whole place is going to be a coral reef in three minutes."
"I'll carry Steve," Aron said. "Tony, take Bucky. I'll meet you at the surface."
Aron grabbed Steve and, without waiting for the elevator, leapt straight through the ceiling, punching through level after level of reinforced concrete and steel until they broke into the cold, midnight air of the Atlantic.
The return to Malibu was different this time. The "Avengers" weren't just a concept anymore; they were a reality sitting in the living room.
Steve Rogers sat in a modern armchair, looking at a tablet that was displaying a summary of the last seventy years. He looked overwhelmed, his shoulders slumped under the weight of a world that had moved on without him.
"It's a lot to take in," Howard said, walking into the room. He looked older, his hair silver, but his eyes were bright as he looked at the man he had once spent years searching for. "I never stopped looking for you, Steve."
"I know, Howard," Steve said, his voice soft. "Thank you."
Aron stood by the window, watching the stars. He felt the Gene settling, the evolution from the battle at the Raft integrating into his DNA. He felt... complete. For now.
What does that mean? Aron asked.
Tony walked over to Aron, two glasses of orange juice in hand. He handed one to his brother. "So. We have a Captain, a Hulk, a Winter Soldier, a Genius, and... whatever you are. What's the plan, Ronnie?"
Aron looked at the team gathered in the room. Steve was talking to Bucky. Bruce was showing Howard a new theory on gamma stabilization.
"The plan is simple," Aron said. "We don't wait for the aliens to arrive. We don't wait for the gods to decide our fate. We take the fight to them."
"And Obadiah?" Tony asked. "And the people who funded Zola?"
"They're just shadows," Aron said. "And shadows can't survive the light."
Aron looked toward the horizon. He could feel it—a shimmer in the fabric of space. Somewhere out there, Thanos was beginning to move. Somewhere in the stars, the gears of the Infinity Stones were turning.
"Let them come," Aron whispered.
He was Aron Stark. He was the Perfected Doomsday. And he was ready.