High above the ground, Henry's force field kept the biting wind at bay.
Beside him, Tony looked down at the landscape the explosions and ice had completely remade, and at his brother, who regarded the scene with utter calm. The corner of Tony's mouth twitched uncontrollably beneath the armor.
What is this, a walk in the park?!
Damn Henry.
"I have to say," Tony muttered weakly, "you really are getting more and more practiced at stealing my spotlight with these wildly over-the-top entrance moves. Do you even realize what that kind of impact can do to the Earth's fragile tectonic plates?"
"Oh? Is that so?" Henry glanced at him, then looked down at Bucky — still unconscious, wrapped in Henry's biofield. "Do you have a better suggestion, eco-conscious brother? Like staying down there and doing a zero-distance energy exchange with that base that's about to blow?"
"I do have a better idea!" Tony snapped back. "I could compute a perfectly efficient escape route in less than ten seconds — instead of you bumbling around like a drunk mouse!"
Henry smirked. "Does your perfect escape route include leaving the souvenir that killed our parents down there?"
Tony went silent. He stared at the unconscious man; his expression grew complicated.
"All right." After a long pause he muttered reluctantly, "You have a point. But it won't happen again. Next time, all operations follow my orders — Chief Tactical Commander Tony Stark, understood?"
"Of course, of course," Henry humored him. Then he issued a dry instruction to Jarvis. "Jarvis, have the plane come pick us up. Coordinates are over that new lake we made. The scenery's nice — could be a tourist site. Name it whatever you want; how about 'Hydra's Grave Lake'?"
Hours later, a Stark Industries private jet cruised smoothly toward Europe. Inside, the atmosphere was the opposite of earlier: no rock music, no whisky, just heavy silence.
James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, sat bound to a chair. He was still unconscious, his face pale and blank. Maybe he didn't know what had happened; in any case, his trial had arrived.
Tony and Henry were not in armor — both wore comfortable casual clothes and sat across from Barnes. Tony broke the silence first, his voice hoarse. "So, how do you plan to judge him?"
"Me?" Henry raised an eyebrow and looked at Tony. "No, Tony. I'm not going to judge him. I just brought him back."
He paused, then looked Tony in the eye with a rare seriousness. "The one who should judge him is you."
Tony froze. "Me?"
"Yes." Henry nodded. "You're Howard Stark's eldest son, Tony Stark. So you have to settle this yourself — you said as much before. I only dug him out of that cold iron coffin. Though I admit I'd like to kill him right away."
Henry stood and walked to Barnes, tapping his wristwatch with a finger. An invisible, unusual sonic field pulsed from the watch and enveloped Barnes's head.
"I used the tech you gave me," Henry said softly in the hushed cabin, "to restore his suppressed memories. He remembers everything now — who he is, where he came from, and what he did on the night of December 26, 1991."
He stepped back and left the space entirely to Tony. "He's yours. Kill him, or don't — you decide."
Tony watched the man slowly open his eyes. What kind of eyes were those? Not hollow and numb this time; the blue irises were full of pain, struggle, despair. He looked at Tony's face — there was a resemblance to Howard Stark — lips trembling, trying to form words. Only broken, hoarse syllables came out.
"...I...remember..."
"...I'm...sorry..."
Tony stared at him without expression. The confident, arrogant eyes that everyone knew were now empty — but only Tony knew how the storm inside him raged. Memories of his father's stern face, his mother's gentle smile, that cold Christmas night, the decades-old death report — all of it surged up, swallowing his calm.
Anger, sorrow, hatred — the emotions crashed in his chest, threatening to destroy reason. He slowly raised his right hand; the nano wristband winked and formed a steel gauntlet. The palm-mounted repulsor glowed white, aimed at Barnes's penitential face.
Time stretched. The cabin held only the faint hum of the repulsor charging.
Henry stood calmly at the side. He did nothing to intervene. He watched his older brother — the man who hid softness under flippancy — make a decision that would change his life.
One second. Two seconds. Three.
Tony looked at the remorse-streaked face and remembered the question he had once asked himself: What is the point of killing a mindless tool?
True. Killing a tool changes nothing. The parents will not return; the past will not be undone.
But why — why should a murderer be forgiven just because he says "sorry" after regaining memory? Who will comfort Howard and Maria lying cold and lifeless by the roadside? Who will mend their torn nights? The anger finally won out. The towering fury burned away the last threads of hesitation.
"'Sorry'?" Tony's voice was hoarse. "Go tell my parents that."
Before anyone could react, a searing white beam erupted from his palm and tore through Barnes's skull. The cabin filled with the acrid smell of burnt flesh. Barnes's body slumped; the blue eyes went blank, the last look like a strange relief.
Tony lowered his hand; the repulsor shut off. He stared at the corpse without expression. The arrogant eyes were empty. He had taken revenge. Yet why was there no satisfaction — only hollowness?
Henry remained quiet, watching his brother bury his final doubt with his own hands. After a long time he walked over and lightly patted Tony's stiff shoulder.
"It's over," he said softly.
Tony did not turn. He closed his eyes. "No." His voice was raw, tired. "It's only just begun."
The steel gauntlet dissolved into nano-particles and reformed into the silver bracelet on his wrist. He stood and walked slowly toward the cockpit. His back no longer looked lonely; it looked cold.
Henry glanced at the corpse, then said, "Jarvis."
"Yes, sir."
"Take care of it."
"Yes, sir."
Henry didn't linger either; he walked toward the cockpit.
Hours later the jet touched down at an abandoned military airstrip in some nameless part of Europe. The aircraft cabin was heavy with a suffocating silence.
Tony didn't drink. He watched the unending darkness outside the windows. Henry sat opposite, as mute as he had been on the trip over. After a long while Tony asked, in a flat voice, "Next stop?"
Henry lifted his head and looked at him. He couldn't see any hesitation in Tony's eyes now — only resolve. Henry smiled faintly.
"Time to root Hydra out of Europe," he said.
Tony did not smile back. He merely nodded. "All right."
***
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