Chapter4:
Baron Strucker had found that being a leader required many things. Discipline, cunning, strength of will. But the most important, at least in his experience, was patience.
Leadership meant dealing with people, and far too often those people were buffoons.
"Repeat that for me, Tanner." His voice stayed level, betraying only a trace of the irritation bubbling beneath.
The young operative swallowed. "Uhh… we've had about forty-five casualties. And twenty-six men injured… to various degrees."
Strucker's eyes narrowed. "Our heavily armed facility, staffed with some of Hydra's finest, gutted nearly in half. And the status of our prisoners?"
The operative paled. "We've… failed to recapture subjects 214 and 522. Sweeps have been made, but we're unsure. We haven't—"
"I see." Strucker reached for the knife at his desk, a fine paring blade polished to a gleam, and turned it in his hand.
It would feel so very satisfying to slit the boy's throat. The thought came easily, almost soothing in its simplicity.
The boy was nothing special—pulled from the general track, without connections to any of Hydra's true heads, no particular skill that set him apart. Just another cog, trembling before him.
The silence stretched. Strucker twirled the knife, letting the weight settle in his palm, and allowed the quiet to sharpen his thoughts. The fear on the boy's face was at least some balm on the irritation of this fiasco.
Still, even incompetents had their uses. With his cell gutted so badly, he would need every pair of hands in the coming days.
"You are dismissed." He waved him off with a flick of his hand.
The agent bolted, his hasty retreat almost comical. Spineless, yes—but amusing in its own way.
He walked the halls of his vaunted research facility, though today it hardly felt like the bastion of progress he had built.
He paused, gaze lingering on the monstrosity's corpse slumped against the wall—a grotesque heap of strange wooden flesh, collapsed into an unnatural pile.
The halls bore further scars: half-eaten bodies of guards who had failed to contain it, streaks of blood, shattered equipment. The agents and scientists who remained were reduced to janitors, shoveling wreckage and scrubbing stains in a desperate attempt to erase the massacre.
At another time, he might have admired the creature, even delighted in the possibilities such a specimen could offer his research. But the sheer incompetence surrounding its capture soured any joy.
The smell also didn't help his mood. Several agents gagged openly, faces pale, but he only watched in silence. Cleaning up the mess was the least they could do to make up for their failure.
He snorted and turned away, heading for the laboratories. At least his own work had not been touched little mercies.
The pressurized doors hissed open. Inside, the labs were alive with motion, scientists swarming like ants, analyzing fragments of the monstrosity.
Doctor List stood hunched over a monitor, his eyes wide with excitement.
"Doctor List," Strucker greeted.
"Herr Strucker!" List's voice cracked with enthusiasm as he pulled up a series of readings. "You must see this—these results are extraordinary! Matter manipulation, perhaps even—"
Strucker's hand cracked across his face.
The doctor staggered, coughing, clutching his cheek. "Herr—"
Another slap silenced him.
Strucker grabbed him by the collar and yanked him close. "You used my credentials to order the Winter Soldier to hold back?"
List flinched. "Herr Strucker, I— I did not wish to waste such potential. A subject like this, the possibilities are limitless—"
"I agree. I saw the recordings, Doctor. But potential is just that. Potential." Strucker's grip tightened. His voice cut like a blade. "You used my credentials to make the Winter Soldier hold back. You let both subjects escape. Nearly half my agents are dead or injured, with the shame of seeing the Asset nearly perish added to it." His words rose, straining with fury. "Now every Hydra Head whispers that I am an incompetent fool!"
List's face drained of color, his back pressed against the console.
"You will bring me results, List," Strucker said coldly. "If this monster yields something I can use, I will overlook your blunder. But you do not need me to explain what happens if you fail."
"Yes, Baron… I will get your results!" List stammered, nodding frantically.
Strucker released the doctor's collar, a faint distaste tugging at him. That the man trembled so badly from a mere rebuke was almost insulting. Doctor List was brilliant, yes, but brilliance did not erase cowardice.
He had erred in granting the man such authority. List's lack of ambition beyond his research had made him a good second. But clearly, Strucker would need to be more careful with how much authority the doctor held in matters concerning his academic interests.
"A strike team will arrive shortly. I expect you to compile everything we know of the prisoners."
Doctor List hesitated. "Sir… they are under our custody—"
"Not anymore." Strucker's voice hardened. "The other Heads have graciously offered their assistance. To ensure that another fiasco of this magnitude does not occur. Pierce and Hale, in particular, are displeased that we nearly lost the Soldier. And Zola himself has overruled my protests. For the sake of Hydra and our mission, we will collaborate."
"Ah." A look of realization passed the Doctor's face. At least the buffoon understood the scale of such a failure. "Then of our other subjects…?"
"The twins will remain ours, as will our stipend of tesseract energy capsules. The mutant experiments also remain under our purview. Your success in producing such a broadly potent subject was noted—it is the only reason for our continued custody. But make no mistake. The other Heads are expecting results."
"Of course, Baron."
"Go. Agent Rumlow will be with you within the hour."
Strucker turned away, leaving the simpering man behind. He had calls to make—many calls—to ensure this fiasco did not ruin his standing.
Nick was having a bad fucking day—though being Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. meant most of his days were.
Defending the world from lunatics, madmen, and bastards was par for the course. He was jaded, no point denying it. But the things that landed on his desk would have any man feeling like shit.
Standing before the insufferable pricks on the World Security Council at six in the morning didn't help either.
And yet, even in his long, storied career, this one probably took the fucking cake.
Dealing with Stark was irritating on a good day. Dealing with him after he'd nearly sparked an international incident—by blowing open some kind of superhuman trafficking ring—was exhausting.
Listening to the snipes of an angry genius man-child was bad enough. The fact that Stark's barbs had fragments of truth buried in them, pointing out how S.H.I.E.L.D. had missed something so glaring, only pissed him off more.
It didn't help that Rogers had somehow caught wind of it. Convincing the man that no, the Red Skull had not clawed his way back from the grave for another round of punching was a headache all its own.
And just hours ago, the Hulk had gone on another rampage—this time in the backyard of an African warlord. Stopping General Ross from indulging his twisted obsession with the green monster had been a long, stupid, and thoroughly infuriating call with Washington.
So he was indulging in a bit of free time. Clearing his head, seeing the ground with his own eyes. It never hurts a leader to see things firsthand.
But he had no interest in spending twenty minutes being greeted every five steps. So he pulled a few tricks out of the bag.
You'd be surprised how far a quick wardrobe change, a surgical mask, and a mop could get you. He'd walked past plenty of people, and not a single one gave him a second glance.
Why would they? He was just the janitor.
But whatever good mood he'd managed to scrape together vanished fast. He leaned on the mop, dragging it lazily across the hangar floor, and watched from the corner of his eye.
Agents moved here and there—nothing unusual, even this late. That wasn't the problem.
The problem was the group of heavily armed operatives milling around a Quinjet. To anyone else, it probably looked like business as usual. A standard deployment.
Delegation was part of the job—he didn't need to sign off on every single move the agency made. If he micromanaged every mission, S.H.I.E.L.D. would grind to a halt. So it wasn't strange for agents to be given missions that he wasn't aware of.
Still. One of his best teams disappearing in the middle of the night without so much as a whisper in his ear?
It smelled rotten. And it already had him pissed the hell off.
Calmly, without any rush, he finished his mopping and turned away.
"Form up!" Agent Rumlow's voice cut across the hangar. The strike team snapped into motion, boots hammering the deck as they filed into the Quinjet.
He was already down the hallway before the sound of them faded.
A few corridors later, the janitor was gone, leaving no one the wiser.
He pulled out his phone and dialed. "Maria."
"Yeah, Boss?" his deputy director answered.
"Check something for me. Is Strike Team available? I might need them for an op."
"No, sorry, Director. Agent Rumlow is listed on personal emergency leave, and several members of Strike Team are marked off-duty. Want me to call them in?"
"No, thank you, Maria." His knuckles tightened around the phone. "That'll be all. Have a good night, Maria."
"...You too, Director." The click signaled the end of call.
"Personal leave, huh." He let out a dry, humorless chuckle, but his eyes were hard.
He'd like to see who thought they could pull a fast one on him.
—
With a great heave, she dragged Jack as far as she could. The cold bit into her, another blast of icy wind forcing her to shiver and grit her teeth.
Snow stretched in every direction, endless and empty.
"Urghh." She finally pulled him into the shelter of a small group of trees, their branches breaking just enough of the wind to serve.
Fear still flickered at the back of her mind, telling her to run. But her body had reached its limits, and carrying Jack any farther risked… accidentally touching him.
So she collapsed beside Jack, pressing as close as she dared. The faint warmth radiating from the ring was the only thing keeping the cold from swallowing her whole.
Anna Marie didn't know how her life had spiraled into this.
Stranded in the wilderness.
On the run from some secret organization. And her savior was apparently some weird wizard who could conjure frogs and rocks out of thin air
Her gaze drifted to Jack's face.
His face was a mess.
Her hand lifted, trembling, to wipe the blood away—but she stopped short, tears threatening to spill. All her fault.
Her curse had already nearly killed a boy once. And if she wasn't careful, she'd do it again.
Never again. She wouldn't let anyone sacrifice themselves for her.
The cold gnawed at her, making her shiver, but she didn't move. She pressed closer to Jack, shielding him from the wind with what little strength she had left.
"Not again," she whispered.