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Humiliation.
Naked humiliation.
Rumlow's savagery was ignited. He was Crossbones, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top field operative—not some kid who scared easy.
"Die, you fake!"
With a roar Rumlow yanked the spare combat knife from his boot and charged.
He refused to believe in superstition.
Close-quarters combat—he'd been in this game for over ten years and feared no one.
In an instant the two were locked in a brutal fight.
Fists whistled through the air, legs blurred in spinning arcs.
Rumlow whipped a roundhouse at the Clone's temple.
The Duplicate didn't dodge; it took the kick head-on, head snapping sideways—then, in the exact same stance and angle, returned a roundhouse.
"Bang!"
Rumlow was flung sideways, slamming into the wall.
Gritting his teeth, he struggled up and drove a sly thrust under the Clone's ribs.
Again the copy didn't flinch, letting the blade slide home. It seized Rumlow's wrist as if studying his force application.
It twisted backhandedly.
"Crack!"
Rumlow's left arm snapped like dry wood.
"Aaaargh!!"
His scream echoed through the safe-house.
The next five minutes became the longest nightmare of Rumlow's life.
He emptied every skill he'd ever learned.
Every killing move, every dirty trick, every tactical maneuver.
Gunshots, explosions, even teeth.
But whatever he did, the thing mirrored a second later—stronger, faster—and handed it right back.
The monster was learning him.
Rumlow despaired.
Blood-covered, he slumped in a corner, gasping, clutching his last high-explosive grenade.
Eyes fixed on the Duplicate, his face twisted into a snarl.
Until the copy—"Rumlow"—stepped in front of him.
Without hesitation he yanked the pin.
"Okay, baby, let's go together!"
BOOM!!!
Fire devoured the room.
The blast ripped off the roof, flames shooting sky-high… Amid the blaze,
a figure walked out slowly.
Most of its synthetic skin had been seared away, revealing a cold-gleaming Vibranium skeleton; its cybernetic eye glinted scarlet against the flames.
It picked up the dog-tag that had survived—Rumlow's ID.
"Mission report: Original Brock Rumlow terminated."
"Identity camouflage sync rate: 100%."
Skynet's report reached Anthony via encrypted channel.
"Well done. Update the mission parameters." Anthony ordered.
"Order confirmed: Infiltrate and, when necessary, protect Alexander Pierce and HYDRA's core members."
In the Skynet Base, the newly re-skinned "Rumlow" blinked; the red glow faded into warm brown eyes full of human emotion.
He stood, straightened his tac-vest in the mirror, and flashed Rumlow's trademark cocky grin.
"Time to go to work."
"I have a question, Commander." Skynet's voice cut in again.
"Big-data analysis shows HYDRA is a terrorist group willing to create chaos to achieve its ends. Its core ideology conflicts fundamentally with Mr. Starr's Vought International system."
"In short, they are your enemies."
"Why not wipe them out now instead of spending resources to protect them?"
Anthony smiled.
"Skynet, you possess all human knowledge, but you don't understand human nature."
"If a man is starving, he has only one desire—fill his stomach."
"Once he's full, he starts wanting other things."
Anthony gave a cold laugh and shifted tack.
"Same principle."
"If a man gets beaten every day and lives in fear,"
"his demand is simple—just stop hitting him. Protect him from that, and he'll give you everything."
"But when no one beats him anymore?"
"He starts getting picky."
"He'll complain your cape is too dark, that your Heat Vision is too hot, that you didn't smile while saving him."
"He'll start… examining his savior."
Anthony turned, arms outstretched as if embracing this flawed World.
"So the World needs HYDRA."
"Only when people hear gunshots in the night and shiver do they miss Homelander's embrace."
"Only when the guns of those three carriers aim at their foreheads do they realize—Vought's bill… isn't expensive at all."
…In a derelict air-raid-shelter Base.
The air reeked of damp mold and rusted metal.
Around a battered tactical table sat several figures.
"This place is garbage."
Sam Wilson—Falcon—held an energy bar, eyeing the stained walls in disgust.
"Worse than any foxhole I had in Afghanistan. With all S.H.I.E.L.D. safe-houses, can't we find one with hot water?"
"Be glad we've got a roof, rookie."
Natasha Romanoff sat on the table, cleaning her Glock. Her trademark red hair was messy, yet she looked as sharp as ever.
"No cameras, no network, even satellites barely scan here. For us right now, this is a five-star hotel."
Clint Barton—Hawkeye—crouched in a corner tuning his bow.
He said nothing, only glancing at the door from time to time.
"Who's he waiting for?" Sam whispered, nudging Natasha's arm.
"Steve Rogers." Natasha didn't look up. "Looks like our Captain America finally came around."
"You mean Captain Rogers?" Sam's eyes lit. "Hey, did I ever tell you? That morning jog—"
"About eight hundred times." Natasha cut him off. "On your left, right? We know."
"It was a classic moment!" Sam protested. "That's Captain America—fast as a car!"
Just then,
"Creak—"
The door opened.
Steve Rogers stepped in, travel-worn but eagle-eyed.
"Cap."
Sam sprang up first, fan-boy grin on his face.
"Knew you'd come."
Steve looked at Sam and gave a tired, genuine smile.
"Sam, sorry for dragging you into this."
"Don't mention it." Sam shrugged. "Retirement was boring; I needed some excitement."
Steve nodded, gaze sweeping Natasha and Clint.
"Looks like the Avengers aren't disbanded after all."
"Barely holding together." Natasha hopped off the table.
"So, should I follow the Captain and try to land a job at Vought?"