The Mad Poet's Diary

chapter summary: Berlin is supposed to be a clean infiltration. Somewhere between surveillance, sabotage, and an engine that shouldn’t exist, things kinda went south. Steve Rogers hates undercover work. And double hates his partner Em Montanegro (yep. Em Montenaro's SHIELD cover spy name) thrives in it. Two people who absolutely should not be arguing like this while the universe is unraveling walk into a room full of money, watchers, zero clean exits, spy games, reality instability A.K.A. things that don’t stay where they should, but who's to stop them?

warnings: structural instability, distorted reality, cosmic/multiversal horror, psychological tension, violence, and emotionally charged sequences under extreme pressure

Chapter 2

word count: 17.3k for this chapter alone? lmao the 20-chapter draft reached 60k, so... buckle up, cowboys!

EXT. PRAGUE - TRAIN STATION — DAY — August 12, 2012

["Gypsy" by Fleetwood Mac continues playing after being paused by the fading out song, “Cobrastyle by Teddybears and Mad Cobra”]

Em risks a glance back and uses her free hand flick just slightly behind her hip. No flourish or glow. Just a precise, dismissive motion.

The air tightens as the distortion snaps like a rubber band. The Enhanced staggers mid‑stride, expression going slack as unseen force wraps around its nervous system and shuts the lights off clean. It crumples, unconscious before it even hits the ground.

Steve doesn’t notice at first. They skid to a stop behind a concrete support pillar, chests heaving. Steve braces one hand against the wall, shield angled automatically, scanning for pursuit. Seconds tick by and nothing follows. He exhales, then frowns. “…It should’ve followed us by now.”

Em leans against the column beside him, catching her breath, too casual. “Mm. Probably reconsidered its life choices.”

He side‑eyes her. “That doesn’t make sense.” Another beat passes. Steve’s brow furrows. “Wait. It feels like it’s been down for a while now.” He turns fully toward her. “Did you just—were you messing with me?”

She straightens, grin blooming uncontrolled now. “Yeah.”

Steve stares. “You what?”

She gestures vaguely back the way they ran. “It knocked itself out by that pillar over there. I mean, better for us right? We needed time to plan. You were… very entertaining though.”

He blinks once. Twice. Then realization dawns. “…You let me think we were about to die.”

“Oh totally,” she says cheerfully. “Also—” she tilts her head, assessing him like a sculptor judging marble, “that suit is really not it for you.”

His jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”

“When you run,” she continues, utterly unbothered, “your ass just kinda… sticks out.”

Silence ushers over them as somewhere behind them, emergency sirens wail.

Steve drags a hand down his face. “You didn't tell me about a development in a high‑risk engagement so you could critique my physique.”

“But don’t worry!” she adds quickly, waving a hand. “It’s like... how do they say it?” She snaps her fingers. “America’s ass.”

Steve exhales a long, defeated breath. “…Yeah. That should be my Tinder bio.”

She cackles, the sound bright and reckless and infuriatingly alive amid smoke and damage.

And as Steve turns back toward the wreckage to regroup, still shaking his head, he misses the way Em’s smile softens, just barely, as she watches him.

MAY 8, 2012 — S.H.I.E.L.D. HELICARRIER — FLASHBACK

Steve doesn’t like the room the moment he enters it.

It’s too quiet and clean. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace so much as containment. Fury just stands at the center table, one eye on a tablet, then flicking to Steve, posture loose but deliberate. “You called?” Steve asks.

Fury doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gestures toward the shadowed corner of the room. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

Steve follows the motion and immediately tenses.

The woman steps forward without waiting to be acknowledged. Back straight, top buttons of her henley loose and skirt unmarked by the chaos that’s coated the rest of the Helicarrier in exhaustion and ash. No standard-issue uniform, something custom, functional, too elegant for a battlefield. Gold-heeled stilettos that have no business being operational footwear. She looks at Steve like she’s inventorying him, not impressed.

“This is Special Consultant Emily Montanegro,” Fury says evenly. “Transferred under Joint Strategic Oversight from... let’s call it external channels.”

Steve’s jaw tightens at the phrasing.

Em doesn’t offer a hand. Doesn’t salute. She inclines her head just enough to be polite and no more. “Captain Rogers,” she says. Her voice is calm. Neutral. Measured like a weapon placed gently on a table. “I’ve read your file.”

Steve bristles. “Have you.”

“Extensively.”

That’s the first strike.

Fury continues, unfazed. “Agent Montanegro here specializes in counter‑espionage, behavioral prediction, neural reprogramming recovery, pattern‑based threat neutralization, and infiltration.” A pause. “She’s good.”

“Good at what?” Steve asks sharply. “You just listed half the things I’m trying to stop.”

Em’s mouth curves, but it's not quite a smile. “I’m good at making monsters predictable.”

Steve’s eyes narrow, “That doesn’t make them ethical.”

“No,” she agrees without hesitation. “It makes them manageable.”

That earns her his full, cold attention.

Fury interjects before it can escalate. “Emily ran successful ops against three organizations you didn’t know existed. Zero civilian casualties. Minimal collateral.”

Steve doesn’t look away from her. “Anyone can reduce collateral when they’re not accountable.”

Finally, she meets his gaze directly. Up close, her eyes are unsettling. Just old. Observant in a way that feels invasive. “You’re worried I don’t play by the rules,” she says.

“I’m worried you write them when it’s convenient.”

That does it. Something sharp flickers across her face, annoyance, displaced rather than hidden. “You confuse morality with rigidity,” she replies coolly. “They’re not the same thing.”

“And you confuse efficiency with righteousness.”

Fury sighs. “Jesus Christ, it’s been six minutes.”

Steve snarls, "This woman assaulted me months ago in my apartment."

"Oh, please. Don't be such a sissy." Em turns slightly toward Fury, dismissive. “You didn’t tell me he was this sanctimonious.”

Steve scoffs at her and turns toward Fury too like a petty, precarious child. “You didn’t tell me you were this comfortable working in the gray.”

“The gray is where things get done,” she snaps back. “Black and white is for history books and funerals.”

The silence that follows is taut enough to snap. Fury watches them both for a beat, expression unreadable. Then, “You’re going to be working together.”

“What?” Steve says immediately.

“Oh God no,” Em says at the same time.

Fury smiles thinly. “Congrats to you both.”

Steve folds his arms. “Absolutely not. I’m not taking orders from someone who won’t even use a real name.”

Her eyes sharpen instantly. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says. “Fake name. Vague credentials. No chain of command. You want me to trust that?”

Em steps closer, invading his space without apology. He's taller than her enough to consitute intimidation, and she knows it. But she waves it off to the serum instead. “You want the truth, Captain?” she says softly. “You’re a symbol trying to survive in a world that outpaced you. I’m here to make sure it doesn’t kill anyone else in the process.”

His voice drops. “And who makes sure you don’t?”

A beat. Fury answers for her. “I do.”

Steve looks between them, jaw clenched. “That’s not good enough.”

Em laughs quietly, humorless. “You think I care?” She meets his stare, unblinking. “I don’t need your approval. I just need you predictable.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Her smile sharpens just a degree. “We’ll see.”

Fury claps his hands once, ending it. “Great. Orientation’s over. Wheelhouse up in twenty.”

Steve turns on his heel without another word.

Behind him, Em watches him go—expression unreadable, irritation simmering beneath disciplined calm. “Charming,” she mutters. "Shame the serum couldn't tame the star-spangled hypocrisy."

Fury glances at her. “You hate him already.”

“I don’t hate him,” she replies coolly. “I just don’t trust men who think being good makes them immune to being wrong. Oh, and also, I do hate him.”

Fury nods once. “He’ll grow on you.”

She snorts. “Doubtful.” She then mutters to herself when Fury is out of earshot, "God, I regret taking on this assignment."

From down the corridor, Steve hears her annoyed grumbling, brief and dismissive, and decides, with absolute certainty, that this Emily Montanegro is a problem.

PHASE 1 — ENTRY: MAY 11, 2012 — BERLIN

The ballroom doesn’t shimmer—it blinds.

Light refracts off crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes, scattering gold across polished marble like something that chose to be disorienting. Music strings layered over a bassline, swelling just heavy and brightly enough to keep conversations shallow and attention fractured. It’s engineered distraction. The kind that makes people feel important while something more important moves quietly between them.

Steve notices it immediately. He feels it the moment he steps in. Of course he does. He just doesn’t belong in it.

This is the kind of room that knows how to contain panic before it becomes unfashionable, and before that shift. That subtle, internal tightening across his shoulders, his spine, his breathing. It’s the same instinct that kicked in on battlefields, on broken bridges, on carrier decks full of smoke and shouting—

Threat present. Not detonated yet. It leaks instead—through laughter a little too loud, through conversations that don’t track, through glances that linger half a second longer than politeness allows. At the wrong moments, violins climb too sharply, lifting and disorienting.

Everything gleams gold. Everything reflects.

Everything lies.

He hates the suit. The tux feels wrong. Not because of how it fits—because it does. Of course it does. Not physically—Stark tech tailoring made sure of that. The tux sits clean across his shoulders, the lines sharp, the collar cutting neat at his throat like it belongs there.

It just doesn’t belong to him.

It fits like a second skin, sharp down the chest—but it sits on him wrong, like borrowed armor meant for a different war. His fingers twitch once at his side, unused to not having gloves, to not having a shield, to not having a clear enemy to look at.

He adjusts the cuff once. Twice. Stops himself before it becomes obvious.

Instead, he has, beside him, his S.H.I.E.L.D. issued partner.

Em glides, munches on appetizers. Her scolding comes out muffled. “Stop scanning like you’re about to arrest everyone, including the hors d’oeuvres,” She murmurs beside him, not even looking at him.

"Well. At least I don't snack one shrimp per minute." He doesn’t turn. “I’m assessing the room.”

“You’re broadcasting a threat posture in a room full of people who sell threats for a living,” she rolls at her eyes at his continued judgement as she lifts a glass from a passing tray without breaking stride. She takes a sip, then adds, almost as an afterthought, “Blend, Captain.”

His gaze drifts to her figure and finds…

Heels.

Of course heels. Not even S.H.I.E.L.D. issued. Just from her own wardrobe. The one she wore when they first met, seven days ago. Thin, sharp, utterly impractical stilettos that somehow don’t slow her down at all as she moves through the room like it was built to accommodate her stride.

“Stop scanning,” she murmurs, barely moving her lips.

Steve doesn’t look at her. “I’m not scanning.”

“You are,” Em replies. “You’re doing it like you’re about to tackle someone over the shrimp appetizers.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “I’m… prepping.”

Em hums—soft, unimpressed—and plucks yet another glass from a passing tray without breaking stride. Doesn’t drink it right away. Just lets it sit in her hand like a prop she forgot she picked up. “You’re staring then,” she adds.

He interjects, “I am not—”

“You’re a six-foot-two-should-be-a-flagpole man in a tux glaring at people who own private militaries,” she cuts in, voice still perfectly pleasant. “Yes. You are.”

He exhales. Slow. For control.

“Breathe, Steven.” She says lightly.

He tries. God, he tries. But they’re everywhere he looks. Money. Precision. Power. Quiet deals being suggested without anyone ever saying a word that can be recorded. Men and women who smile like their hands are never clean. Self-sustaining, predatory with their half-sentenced conversations. People who wear their influence like perfume—subtle until you step too close and realize it’s suffocating. And they’re watching. Hidden amongst crowds dancing in the wrong directions, raised voices echoing off wine glasses, with a rhythm that tracks its targets seamlessly.

He keeps trying to act natural and to not to look at them—and failing. “You take the west side,” Steve calls. “I’ll take center.”

Em, on the other hand, doesn’t blend. She redefines the room. Deliberately.

Everything about her is deliberate.

Her dress catches the light—slit high enough for movement, dark green so deep, almost reading black beneath the dim light, unless the gold hits it just right. Structured where it needs to be, just enough to hint at armor without ever sacrificing elegance, fluid everywhere else. It shouldn’t work. It does. People notice her. But she blends. Like she’s spent a long time being one of the bad guys here.

“No.” Em runs beside him effortlessly, stride long and economical, heels striking concrete with an irritatingly confident cadence. She cuts in, already adjusting course. “You’ll take center mass.” Doesn’t even look at him as she corrects smoothly. “They’re watching reaction patterns, not perimeter breaches.”

He shoots her a look.

“I’m not assuming,” she reads him like a book, speaking before he starts again, tone still almost bored. “You read the playbook. I wrote it.”

He falters. Just slightly. That stops him for half a step.

“You’re staring again,” she says, still not looking at him.

That’s all it takes. “I’m not—”

Now she does glance, just briefly, and there’s something dangerously amused in it. “Look, if you keep doing that, someone’s going to realize you don’t belong here.”

“What if they’re just right on the money?” he mutters as he steals her champagne and sipd on it.

Her lip twitches and shoots him a pointed stare. “Then at least pretend you belong to me.”

Before he can process that, her hand slides into his arm. Possessively.

It sends a visible jolt through him. His posture shifts—not away, but rigid, like he’s recalculating balance under unexpected weight. There’s a faint, undeniable flush creeping up the back of his neck.

She feels it immediately. Of course she does.

His jaw tightens. “Hey-”

“Shh. Relax,” Em whispers, tightening her fingers—just slightly. “Couples draw less suspicion.”

His eyes flick toward her hand. Still on him. Still anchored like she intends it to stay there. “Seriously?” he mutters under his breath.

“Dead serious.” Then, softer, sharper. “And if you pull away right now, every person within fifty feet is going to notice.”

He doesn’t pull away. But his expression hardens, as if he can will the discomfort into something operational. “Fine,” he says. “But we stick to the objective.”

“Always do,” she replies.

He looks at her then. Really looks. There’s no flirtation there. Just intent.

Good, he tells himself. That makes this simpler.

When he recovers, Em already adjusted their trajectory. Already steering them deeper into the room. “Not a single point,” she says. Her gaze drifts—selecting. Eyes flicking and tracking behavior. “This isn’t a hit. It’s a test.”

“A test instead of a clear target?” Steve frowns. “For what.”

“For us.”

And that’s when Em moves closer. Close enough that the room, for half a second, doesn’t exist. Close enough that her shoulder brushes his chest. Not subtle or cautious. And definitely not Espionage: Escape Detection 101.

It’s unexpected.

“Even if they’re bad guys,” she whispers, adjusting his collar like she’s fixing a detail that actually matters. “PDA makes people uncomfortable.”

Steve goes rigid. Instantly. “I thought I told you to stick to the objective—”

“Yes,” she agrees easily. “I am.”

“…what are you doing then?” Steve mutters as he goes completely still.

“If you’d stop announcing your discomfort and narrating everything you feel,” Em replies, soft and cutting at the same time, “this would look more convincing.”

Her fingers slip behind his ear, cool and precise.

He inhales sharply, instinctively pulling back—but her hand catches his jaw for half a second, steadying him, thumb grazing just enough to look intentional from the outside.

“Don’t,” she says quietly. The word doesn’t rise above the music. But it lands. “I’m fixing it. Your dumbass accidentally turned it off.”

A green light kind of sound. A tiny press—

Click.

The comm settles in place as Maria Hill sighs in exasperation and proceeds to catch them up on precious intel. But is still left to be ignored.

A strand of his hair falls forward. Em tucks it over his ear as if it belongs there—hidden gesture, strategic angle. Covers the comm.

Anyone watching sees intimacy. Closeness. From inside, it’s tactical control.

“Was that necessary?” Steve mutters, voice tight. His ears are burning now. He knows they are. He hates that she knows it too.

“Yes.” Her lips curve. Almost smiling. Barely.

“Well,” he mutters, voice tight, “would’ve been nice to warn me about.”

“You would’ve overreacted.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, forcing control back into his posture. “I didn’t overreact.”

She adjusts her grip on his arm, just slightly. “You flinched.”

“I adjusted.”

She hums softly. “Mm. Very convincingly.”

He shoves the giggling butterflies down, but the flush climbs anyway. Hot. Subtle. Controlled badly.

She notices. Yet again. “You’re blushing,” She pulls back just enough to look at him again. “You absolutely are, so stop it. You look inexperienced.”

“I’m adjusting—” Steve exhales sharply through his nose, “I’m not used to this.”

She smiles faintly. “That is painfully obvious.”

He forces his posture back into something resembling control. “Focus.”

“Already am.”

Steve just glares at her as she continues her relentless wrapping of arms around his. So noncommittal. And so…. infuriating.

For a split second, something shifts. Her signature assessment and calculation contorts along with something quieter beneath it. Something new. Then it’s gone.

Her gaze flicks across the room again. Slow and measured. “Three watchers,” she says suddenly, tone shifting back to business as if the last thirty seconds didn’t happen at all. “One A.I.M. Balcony. As for the two others… well, this will be fun.”

Steve follows her line of sight, subtle but direct. Sees nothing.

She smiles as Steve frowns. “HYDRA. Donor table. West wall—pretending to care about abstract art.”

“…I don’t see—”

“Of course you don’t,” she says. “That’s the point. They’re not here to be seen.”

“They’re not guarding anything.” she continues. “They’re observing interaction points. Entry behaviors. Exit timing.”

“Testing,” he interprets. “They’re measuring tension. Watching who clocks disruptions.”

“Exactly.” Em contemplates. “The question is… what are they looking for?”

Steve pauses. Just for a fraction of a second. Then quietly, “Someone who doesn’t belong.”

Em exhales, low and dry.

“Well,” Steve mutters, “we’re doing great so far.”

“Relax,” she says again, quieter this time. And for once—it doesn’t sound like a command. “We’re not the only ones playing this game tonight,” she adds.

Steve cocks a brow. His gaze flicks from the crowd towards invisible lines threading through the room. To exits and balconies. “We’re not the only ones infiltrating tonight, are we?”

Em tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. Tracking patterns. Movement. Tempo. “A.I.M. doesn’t host open variables,” she says. “If this is a test, then they already know someone’s inside. Especially since HYDRA's crashing the party too.”

“So we’re not the variable?” Steve finally notices the rhythm beneath the room. “Where’s the real operation?”

“No. We’re… complicated.” She looks at him fully now. “The real deal’s below us. Always below.”

Steve shoots his partner a loving (fake) look, as he tucks a loose black strand of hair behind her ear. “Explain.”

“A.I.M. doesn’t send soldiers into rooms like this,” Em says quietly. “They send minds, brokers, and observers. And tonight’s host? Front-facing philanthropy, renewable energy. Very clean. Very convincing.”

His brow furrows slightly. “You’re sure?”

“I’m never sure,” she replies lightly. “I’m just rarely wrong.”

Across the ballroom, a glass shatters. The sound reverberates wrong. Steve feels it immediately. That silent turn of momentum. That invisible pivot point where everything stops pretending. Even the music falters and stumbles just slightly. “Phase one’s over,” he murmurs to Hill via comms.

And just like that, the room stops being a party. And starts being a battlefield.

A problem.

PHASE 2 — INTERNAL BREACH: MAY 11, 2012 — BERLIN, SUBLEVELS

They don’t run when it breaks. They peel away. Steve catches it first—not the motion, but the intent behind it. The crowd doesn’t scatter like civilians, not really. No frantic trampling, no blind pushing toward exits. Instead, they separate—clean, almost rehearsed, bodies turning sideways, redirecting, conversations dissolving mid-word like someone flipped a switch in their heads. A woman laughs too loudly and then stops, smile freezing on her face as she pivots toward a door she didn’t know existed. A man drops his drink and doesn’t even look at it. Panic never fully blooms; it gets choked, managed, redirected by invisible pressure. People don’t scream as security personnel appear too fast, too coordinated, hands already on routes that weren’t there seconds ago. A system revealing itself.

And Em’s already moving. “West corridor,” she pries her grip away from Steve's arm like it was never there. “Service access. They’ll funnel the noise toward the main exits and bury the real traffic below.”

Steve exhales once from the shiver that crosses his body in her absence. “Shift just happened,” he mutters as he falls by her stride.

She’s already cutting left. Already weaving past bodies that are suddenly very interested in not seeing them.

Steve follows—but there’s a delay. It’s the moment where the tux stops being a disguised ballroom politeness to operational violence on friction, always hitting him like a gear change he feels in his bones. “You’re guessing—”

“I’m not guessing,” Em snaps, already slipping past a pair of startled donors, her hand catching Steve’s wrist as she pulls him along like an afterthought she’s decided to keep. “You wanted objective? Objective’s downstairs.”

“I wanted intel—”

Em says under her breath, “You’re getting movement instead. Adapt.”

He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like that she’s already ahead. So he uses his strength on her.

He doesn’t let her drag him far. His hand catches her forearm—firm, controlled, not quite gentle. “Slow down,” he mutters, low enough that no one else hears it as her chest is pulled to his. “Em, we don’t know what we’re walking into.”

She turns her head, just slightly. Just to look at him, not annoyed. Worse—amused. “That’s never stopped you before.”

“That’s different.”

She stares at him for half a second longer than necessary. “How?”

“It just is,” he snaps, quieter than he wants but sharper than he meant.

Em twists her arm free—not aggressively, just enough to remind him she can despite the abasement of his manhandling. “Try to keep up, Rogers.”

The service corridor opens like a secret someone forgot to hide properly. The lighting drops immediately. Gone is the gold and the noise, now, it’s dim fluorescent hum, undecorated clean walls, and sterile traces of something too quiet and orderly.

Steve’s shoulders tighten instinctively. “Feels wrong,” he mutters.

“Good,” Em replies. “Means we’re close to our target.”

They pass a door. Then another one with no markings, no labels. Then, A.I.M. doesn’t ask visitors to knock when the third opens before they reach it. Just like that, opening so welcomingly for them. Two operatives step through in perfect mirrored motion. Suits immaculate, faces all… wrong. Not blank, not human blank. Edited blank. Just too smooth, too neutral, like expressions got edited out in post-production.

Steve reacts first. Always does. His hand snaps forward, grabbing the first by the collar and slamming him into the wall hard enough to crack something structural underneath. Concrete dents under the force. The second moves. Or doesn’t. Or doesn’t stay where he moved. Steve’s punch hits. Air, then cloth, then nothing. He blinks. “What.”

The operative isn’t where he aimed. He was. He is again. No, he’s—

Em moves before the confusion settles. A pivot, heel slicing low across the polished floor, her fingers lock onto a wrist that only exists for a fraction of a second, fingers digging into a pressure point that shouldn’t be hittable if he’s not fully there. She hits the pressure point anyway, and the operative resolves.

He does. For just long enough to feel it. Except he drops half a step, then flickers.

Em's expression sharpens. “Phase displacement,” she mutters, almost to herself.

Steve doesn’t have time to process the words. He recovers just in time to drive his shoulder into the second operative when he reappears wrong—half a step offset from where he should be. The impact lands, but the delay—the microsecond mismatch—throws off the him and his rhythm off. “You’re seeing that, right?” he snaps.

“Yes,” Em says in exasperation, breath steady, voice not. “They’re rewinding position. Not teleporting.”

Steve freezes. “…that’s not possible.”

“Neither is half the stuff you punch on a weekly basis, keep going—”

…that’s—no,” Steve breathes.

“Yeah, dude, welcome to the club,” Em fires back. “Focus—”

The second operative is behind him now. But he didn’t move there. He became there.

Em swears, sharp and unfiltered, moving fast enough that her heel skids slightly on the tile, hand catching Steve’s shoulder and yanking him sideways before the strike lands. “You’re welcome,” she snaps.

“I had it.”

They don’t finish the argument. Because the agent shudders as he slips free into existence once again. Then reappears behind Steve and operative lunges again—and hits again.

And this time Steve adjusts. He doesn’t aim where the man is, but at where the glitch is and the gap ends. In the mili-blink of an eye, the punch lands. Solid. Brutal. The second agent jerks against Steve’s grip, then he jerks with little to no force or recoil, and just snaps backward half an inch into their void. Gone again. Like the moment resets. Like someone nudged the timeline back a fraction of an inch.

The operative collapses, phase stutter breaking under the force. Silence, except for the hum. The operative drops hard, whatever weird shit he’s running on breaking under actual force.

“Wow,” Steve mutters. “That’s weird.”

The other one reappears with half a movement and spasms, then Steve slams him down too. Then, there comes the silence again, and… their breathing. The hum.

Em exhales once. “…okay,” she mutters. “I hate that.”

“Seen something like it,” Steve says, rolling his shoulder. “Seen similar tech, in hindsight, it’s not this bad—”

“Not like that,” she cuts in. “That’s not tech lag. That’s temporal bleed.”

“What does that even mean.” He looks at her. “You say that like it’s better.”

“It means it gets worse, Rogers.”

Before he can respond. Right on cue—a sharp whine cuts through the corridor, making the both of them look up at the drone. Small, angular, and wrong in that clean, mass-produced way that screams weapon instead of tool.

Steve reaches instinctively—like he’s expecting to feel a shield that isn’t there—and pivots instead, grabs a metal service cart, flips it into its path, and it hits… until it doesn’t.

The drone pulses once. A rippling distortion rolls across the air. And everything electrical drops dead for half a second. Lights flicker. His comm crackles. Everything cuts out.

“—Null field,” Em says sharply, fingers already moving to adjust something he can’t see. “Energy suppression—don’t rely on power or anything Stark built in the last five years. Don't panic.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You will,” she shoots back. “You always do when—”

The drone fires. Not bullets. The impact gouges the wall behind them chunks outward like something erased a piece of reality and forgot to replace it, like matter just got… removed. Something closer to absence.

Steve doesn’t wait. He moves, clears the distance in a second, jumping, grabbing the drone mid-flight and slams it down hard enough that its casing fractures under his grip.

It sparks, fails, then pulses again.

Em doesn’t hesitate. Fingertips tear through the seams of the drone’s metal, threading upward unnaturally fast, wrapping around its head before it can pulse again. They tighten, crush, and silence it.

For a moment, everything stills. Steve looks at her. Then at the vines. Then back at her. “…you’re not going to explain that.”

She arches a brow. “Not as long as you’re insisting on going to town on punching things like you could break physics.”

“…fair.” He keeps moving. Deeper now.

The corridor opens into something less human and less clean now. More constructed and exposed. Walls give way to exposed infrastructure, pipes, cables, reinforced glass. And beyond that, movement. Unorganized and unstable.

Steve slows. He doesn’t mean to, but something in him recognizes wrongness. “There,” he mutters.

A man standing halfway through a wall. No. Not through. Not standing. Intersecting. His body flickers. Edges slipping. One arm solid. The other, not agreeing.

“Don’t—” Em starts.

Too late. The man turns. And for one clean second, he’s normal. Then he isn’t. He lunges. Half-solid. Half-not. Eyes open, not seeing, just staring through space instead of across it. Reality doesn’t resist him. It lets him pass.

Steve braces, catching him mid-impact on instinct. And immediately regrets it.

The weight isn’t stable. One second it’s there, the next it’s slipping, like trying to hold water that occasionally forgets it’s liquid. It shifts. Like holding something that forgets its own shape.

“What is this?” he grits out.

Em doesn’t answer immediately. She’s watching. Tracking. Reading. “…test subject,” she says finally. “Or what’s left of one.”

He doesn’t attack again. He spasms. The man’s form shudders and splits messily. Multiple versions and possibilities trying to resolve into one. Failing. Resolving again. Then—he’s gone. Without fade or exit. Just gone.

Steve stares at where he was. “…What the fuck.”

“Wow. This is going on my top five horror movies,” Em says.

They stand there longer than they should. Silence hangs too long. Everything feels… off.

Her gaze doesn’t leave where the man disappeared. “Partial convergence isn’t local,” she says. “It bleeds.” She finally turns to him. And for once, there’s no sarcasm waiting. “People don’t flicker unless it’s already happening somewhere else.”

“…English please.” Steve’s jaw tightens.

“Stuff doesn’t glitch locally like that,” Em ignores his presence as she continues her train of thought, muttering to herself. “Not without something else feeding it. Something bigger.”

He doesn’t like where that’s going. “…how big.”

She doesn’t answer right away. She hesitates. Just a fraction too long. Then, refuses to soften it. “Buildings,” she says. “Maybe more.”

Steve’s stomach drops. “Cities?” he presses.

“Cities. Timelines overlapping for seconds at a time. Maybe longer.”

The hum of the facility deepens. The corridor shifts again. Lower and heavier. Or maybe he just notices it now. “This isn’t a test,” he mutters.

Em shakes her head slowly. Then she looks straight at him. Eyes sharp. Unblinking. “It’s already started.”

PHASE 3 — THE CORE: MAY 11, 2012 — BENEATH THE FACILITY AND REALITY

The descent doesn’t feel wrong. It feels familiar. That’s what unsettles Em first. Aside from the flickering lights, or the way the elevator hum deepening as it drops past anything that should exist on a schematics sheet. There’s something worse. Maybe it’s the rhythm. The contained pressure. The layers built on top of older things. HYDRA architecture. Just cleaner, sterilized, and rebranded.

Steve doesn’t clock that part. The second the numbers on the panel stop lining up. L‑4 to L‑9, to something that stutters like the system skipped a breath. His hand comes up automatically, bracing against the wall, feeling the change differently. “That’s not—”

“—normal?” Em finishes flatly, gripping the rail with one hand, the other already hovering near the wall like she might tear it open if it lies to her again. “Yeah,” she mutters. “File a complaint.”

He shoots her a look. And she doesn’t look back. Steve’s hand slams against the wall to steady himself. “That’s not how floors work.”

The elevator doesn’t drop—it skips. One second the panel reads L-12, the next it flickers into something that isn’t numbers at all—fractured symbols that look like they can’t decide which direction to be read in. Then it jerks again and pauses on L‑21, and passes the space upward.

“Congratulations,” Em glares at him from the oppsite side, pressing her back against the metal wall, facing Steve as his hand hovers near the control panel like it might bolt. “Reality’s breaking protocol. File a complaint.”

The lights strobe—once, twice. Hold. Then drop into a steady dim that feels intentional instead of broken. Then cut to occupied darkness. Not interference, but the kind of noise that presses in, like it’s waiting to see what you’ll do first.

“Hill—” Steve starts, instinctively reaching up, tapping the crackling comm. “Maria—status. We’re approaching lower le—” A sharp, hollow slice of static noise cuts Steve off. Then, nothing.

He hits it again, harder this time. “We completely lost comms.”

“Yeah,” Em says, too quickly. Too flat. “I noticed.”

He exhales through his teeth, jaw tightening hard enough to hurt. “You were experienced in disarming nuclear bombs and other tech in the military, right? Fix it.”

“Oh, sure, ‘cause that’s the same thing,” she snaps, already tearing her earpiece out and cracking it open with her thumbnail like it personally offended her. “Hold on. Let me just negotiate with the laws of physics for better reception, Rogers.”

The elevator lurches. Shudders. Then stops. Not like a machine stopping. Like something else decided they’d gone far enough. The doors don’t open. They separate and split, metal peeling sideways with a sound that shouldn’t belong anywhere near reinforced steel. Cold and bitter air rolls in. Old metal and stinging, like something decided—here.

They step out anyway.

Steve doesn’t wait. He never does when something feels like a choice being made for him. Just instinct dragging him forward into the unknown space like it always does when he runs out of things he can control.

Em follows, but slower. Eyes never leaving every crevice and cranny in the corridor beyond the elevator, because it isn’t a corridor. Not consistently. At first glance, it tries to be. It’s a lab with clean lines, modular consoles, glass partitions, half the walls are just paneling—white, bright, sterile.

Second glance, it’s been used wrong. The burn marks are surgical, not accidental. Equipment melted in places where someone forced something past tolerance limits, wiring rerouted in ways that don’t match blueprint logic. All cracked, carved into by something massive, something that didn’t care about structure or physics or intention.

Third glance, the floor shifts underfoot. Literally. One step is level, the next tilts subtly at first, then sharply enough that Steve compensates on instinct, boots sinking about half an inch—and his whole body and weight redistributing before it registers consciously. “…nope.”

“Uhuh, shut up.” Em snaps, already correcting her own balance without even looking down.

He mutters, “I’m just saying—”

The air hums. Something overhead, dusty shrapnels of metal casing, maybe, slides sideways on Em’s loose black hair instead of falling. “You’re always just saying.”

Steve watches it pass onto his shoulder. “…gravity’s wrong.”

“No, shit, Sherlock.” Em mutters. “You discovered physics is optional today.”

He glares at her. “You’re weirdly calm about this.”

“I grew up around worse,” she says.

It slips out. She hates that it slips out, because she knows Steve catches it. He just doesn’t push.

At least not as they move forward to the stable far wall. For half a second it’s a reinforced panel, then, burned steel—industrial framework that looks older than the building it’s inside. “What the hell—” Steve stops. Actually stops. “…you see that, right.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Gravity shear,” Em says, already adjusting her stance like she’s done this before.

They move forward. Because stopping isn’t an option. Because staying means letting whatever this is stabilize without interference. Because—he doesn’t actually have a reason anymore. He just refuses to stand still. The corridor opens into overlap.

Another piece of debris—metal, maybe part of a wall panel—floats past his shoulder. Sideways, like it found a different direction to fall in. Steve watches it, brow furrowing. “Okay, I don’t like this.”

“Shocking,” she mutters.

The space in front of them doesn’t make sense. It’s the same lab. And something else layered underneath it, something alien, structures arching in angles that hurt to look at too long, geometry stitched together wrong. Half a workstation flickers—clean, intact—then charred and melted—then replaced with something pulsing faintly like it’s breathing. Like before.

Except before, it didn’t have three realities. Same space but not agreeing. Sees flashes of figures moving—ghosts. Or not.

Steve grits out. “Em.”

“Don’t,” Em says quickly.

He looks at her. “…don’t what?”

“Don’t trust your eyes,” Em says quietly. Too quietly. “Don’t treat it like it’s real.”

He looks at her. She’s not joking or smirking. She’s serious. Just enough to matter.

Silence. Then—a sound. Not here. Gunfire echoes—except it doesn’t belong to this moment. Still, he hears it. No matter how distant. Steve turns instinctively, shield arm lifting that isn’t even holding a shield right now.

Nothing, then flickers. A figure. Him. Younger. Or something built out of him, fighting and losing ground. The image stutters. Loops. Then collapses in on itself, fracturing into nothing.

“What is that?” he demands, gesturing toward a spot where something that looked like him—him—dropped to one knee under a blast that never fully resolved.

Em doesn’t look at it. “I don’t know,” she says. Which means she does, and she doesn’t like it.

“You do.”

“Fine! I know what it looked like.” she fires back, eyes lit with something that’s not control anymore. “It doesn’t matter what it looked like, Steve! That’s the point. It’s showing probabilities, not guaranteed truth.”

He steps closer. Too close for polite space. “Those are people.”

“They’re echoes.” she snaps, voice cutting sharper than she probably intended.

They stare at each other. Too long. Too hard. “They’re—”

“They’re data!” Em feels the words hang on her tongue, long after she gutted them out. Ugly. Clinical. Wrong in a room that feels like it’s bleeding. Then—the floor shifts again. Violently.

Steve reaches out on instinct, hand catching her elbow before she slips into a sudden drop where the floor simply… isn’t there anymore. “Careful.”

“Don’t,” she shoots back, breath uneven now. She doesn’t thank him. Of course she doesn’t. But her fingers tighten briefly against his sleeve. Not pulling away. Yet. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend you’ve got this under control.”

“I do—” he mutters.

“No, you don’t!” Her voice echoes louder than it should.

The room echoes back. Both of them freeze. The alien structure layer shifts. Something moves in it. Something big.

“Great,” Em mutters. “Now it’s listening.”

“We need a plan,” he says, forcing his voice back into something solid. Structured. Familiar. “We locate the core, we—”

Em rolls her eyes at him as they move again. “Okay. Step 1: Stop asking questions you already hate the answers to.”

“Try me.” The core chamber opens in front of him—and for a second—even Em goes still.

It’s not one space, it’s—three. Like the lab from before, clean and operational. Except it’s layered with another version over it. Blown out, scorched, like something went wrong there. And it isn’t A.I.M. Not SHIELD. Repurposed framework. HYDRA. Em’s stomach drops.

Steve doesn’t notice that. He notices the machine. The “engine.” If that’s what it is. With its wings, cables, and nergy cycling through like it’s breathing too fast, like the lab it’s centered in, half of it existing cleanly while the other half stutters. “Okay,” Steve says slowly. “That’s not a bomb.”

“No,” Em says. She finally looks at the center of the room. At it. The Convergence Engine. Reality stitching itself and tearing apart in the same breath. “It’s worse.”

Steve then flits his gaze to Em, averting it from the mass of interlocking rings and fractured light, rotating—but not in the same direction at the same time. Half of it is solid machinery, Stark-level complexity twisted into A.I.M.’s design language. The other half—doesn’t stay. It phases, forms, and un-forms. “What is it.”

Because she knows the answer in principle, she knows saying it gives it weight. Instead, she finally says, “Something someone shouldn’t have built.”

“That’s not helpful.” He looks at her.

Em doesn’t answer right away. “Neither is you punching it.”

He exhales hard through his nose. “That’s usually plan A.”

“That’s why we’re here.” The machine pulses. The lab version stays intact. The burned version flickers. And for a split second, the older HYDRA structure beneath it aligns. Then breaks again. “It’s not singular,” she says, voice quieter now. “It’s layered. Multiple states occupying the same space, same time.”

Steve steps forward. Careful now. “…we shut it down,” he says, slow and cautious for once. “So we break it. All of it.”

She lets out a short laugh. “You think it’s that simple?”

“I think it’s always that simple.”

Em turns on him again. “And what happens when you destroy it here,” she gestures sharply, “but not in the other states it’s anchored to? You punch one version of it and the rest keep running.”

“Then we keep hitting it.”

“No.” She shakes her head immediately. “That won’t work.”

Steve turns. “How do you know—”

“Because it’s not all there at the same time,” she snaps, gesturing at the overlapping layers. “You hit it here, it’s still running there.”

He frowns. “Then we hit all of it.”

She laughs. Short. Sharp. “Oh, great plan.”

“It’s worked before—”

“When?” she fires back. “When the enemy agreed to stay in one place?”

He steps closer, too close again. “Then explain it.”

“Steve—” Em stops, drags a hand down her face like she’s trying to physically wipe the frustration off. “That’s not how this works. It exists in probability. Not just matter. You can’t brute force something that isn’t consistently there.”

“What’s your suggestion,” he says, voice low now. He clenches his jaw. “I’m not just going to stand here and—”

“I didn’t say stand,” she cuts in, stepping closer, voice dropping but not softening. “I said think.”

“Thinking doesn’t stop this.”

She stares at him. Then laughs again. Sharpened this time. “Neither does charging it like a battering ram!”

“Worked so far.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Because the last rooms we walked through weren’t literally unraveling existence.”

“…Em,” he says quietly.

She’s already staring at it again. The air pulls inward into the engine like something’s testing pressure. A crack forms across one of the overlapping layers and Steve sees something stepping through. Not fully. But trying. Already realizing this isn’t just a device. It’s a door someone doesn’t know how to close.

Then she looks at him. Really looks. And for the first time in this entire mission—there’s something like urgency there that isn’t hidden behind attitude.

“We don’t have a clean way out of this.” He says, with quiet certainty this time—no sarcasm. More dangerous. “You don’t get to wing it here.”

PHASE 4 — DATA EXTRACTION + SABOTAGE: MAY 11, 2012 — CORE CHAMBER

The lab flickers—clean, intact—but weirder now, like it’s drawing breath from somewhere underneath the floor, underneath whatever version of this place is actually real. Then burns, resolving into something older, darker, framed in heavy industrial lines are just plain HYDRA bones. Buried. Repurposed. Still there.

Em notices. Doesn’t say it.

The only thing Steve notices is how the fracture doesn’t step out. It chooses to be there. Every second it exists, it argues with itself. One version of the machinery spins clockwise. Another overlaying it the opposite way. While the third doesn’t turn at all, just pulsing like a heartbeat without proper rhythm. The machine in front of them is trying and failing to exist as one thing. Cables route into sockets that blink in and out of alignment. Half the platform is steel, while the other is somewhere else.

Em and her hands move anyway. The floor dips under Em’s knee as she drops beside the core interface—if it can even be called that. Half physical. Half not. Wires exposed, but not consistently, some blink in and out like they aren’t sure they've been invented yet.

“Stay out of my workspace,” Em snaps as she braces one hand against the shifting console and the other dives into the exposed wiring like she’s done this her entire life.

Steve paces behind her. Not helping. Not not helping. Just… there. Too big for the space. Too wired with adrenaline and no clean outlet for it. “This feels like a bomb,” he mutters.

“It is a bomb,” Em shoots back without looking up. “That is not a helpful distinction—”

“No, I mean—like a bomb bomb.” Steve hovers. He doesn’t mean to. He steps in—then back—then forward again, like his body can’t decide whether to protect her or get out of her way. “This feels like a bomb,” he mutters. “I mean like—like a real one—like wires and timing and—”

“…Steve.” She finally glances at him. Just a look. Flat. “This is not the time to downgrade the apocalypse into something you understand.”

“I understand bombs,” he shoots back. “I’ve disarmed—”

She lets out an exhausted, humorless breath. “You have not disarmed bombs—”

He exhales slowly, “I’ve been around bombs—”

“That doesn’t count—”

Steve looks back at the engine. At the fractures spreading outward from it. At the flickers of other outcomes bleeding into this one. “I know enough—”

“Fantastic,” she mutters. “We’re all doomed.”

The console flickers and then, like it’s mocking them and a panel flickers open. Inside is wires. Actual wires. Blue. Red. Green. And something… else. Something that keeps changing shape when she tries to focus on it. One that keeps flickering in and out like it can’t commit to existing.

Em freezes. Just for a second. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me—”

Steve leans over her shoulder. Then immediately regrets existing in that position. “…those are wires.”

“Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious—” she says slowly, evenly, like she’s explaining oxygen. “Those are wires.”

“No, I mean—those are wires, Em. That’s—okay—that’s good.” he insists, voice rising slightly because something about this feels solvable now. “That’s manageable.”

She turns her head slowly. Very slowly. “If you say something deeply stupid right now, I will push you into a gravity tear.”

He points. At the panel. At the wires. “…you need to cut the blue one.”

Silence. The kind that has teeth. Em rolls her lips together, inward, as she just stares at him. “What.”

He points anyway. “…blue.”

A pause arrives. The kind that has weight.

“…I’m sorry,” she says, sighing. “What.”

“The blue wire,” Steve repeats, faster now, because the machine jerks and the world behind him briefly turns into something that isn’t Berlin anymore. “You cut the blue one. Because it’s usually the right one—” Steve repeats, a little more urgently now, because the engine just lurched and threw a ripple of distortion across the room that made the walls briefly become something else entirely—a warzone, maybe, or a city collapsing sideways. “The blue...”

She blinks. Once. Very slowly. “…what the hell is ‘usually’ doing in this conversation?”

“It’s a system,” he insists, gesturing broadly like the universe will validate him if he’s convincing enough. “There are patterns, design logic, ⁷fail-safes. It’s like—like—” He snaps his fingers. “Traffic lights.”

She goes completely still. “…Huh?”

“Traffic Light Theory,” Steve says, nodding like that explains literally anything.

Em stares at him like she is actively considering violence. “What. The hell. Is a Traffic Light Theory.”

“Okay—listen—” he starts, already talking faster now, hands moving, pacing picking up because he knows he sounds insane but he’s committing anyway. “Red is wrong. Green is obvious—it’s a trap. Everyone thinks green is right, which means—statistically—it’s not—”

“Statistically?!” she snaps, looking up at him now, incredulous. “You are applying statistics to a MULTIVERSAL ENGINE—”

“—which makes blue the middle ground, the correct neutral choice under uncertain conditions—”

“Oh my god.”

“You see it everywhere,” he pushes on, louder now because she’s louder and this is spiraling and he’s not backing down. “Stop signs—red means stop. Confirmation emails, green checkmarks—that’s positive bias. Which means green’s too obvious, red’s wrong, so blue is the logical—”

She shoots up to her feet so fast the floor glitches under her. “BLUE ISN’T EVEN IN TRAFFIC LIGHTS—”

“Exactly,” he fires back, jabbing a finger toward the panel like he just made a point that holds up under scrutiny. “Which makes it the safe option—”

Em takes one step and just jams her finger into his chest. Payback. Left side. Hard. Under the collarbone. “Are you LISTENING to yourself—?!”

He gasps—not because it hurt (it did, but not really), but because it surprised him. His eyes go wide. Annoyed. Offended. Immediate. “Hey—!”

She does it again. Harder. “This isn’t a wiring problem, Rogers! This is reality actively detaching from itself!”

Steve grabs her wrist, yanks her hand back. And smacks it away. “Stop—poke—ing—”

“Oh my god,” Em snaps, shaking out her fingers. “Did you just—did you seriously just use your strength on me—?”

“You poked me—”

“That is not a valid escalation—” He pushes her back a step. Not hard. Not intentionally hard. But enough.

She stumbles. Catches herself. Oh. Oh, she’s pissed now. “Did—did you seriously just push me?”

“I moved you out of the way—”

“You shoved me—!” she demands, stepping right back into his space.

“I did not shove—” he jabs her again. Right side this time. “Don’t—poke—me—!” he snaps, swatting her hand away—

She swats back. “Don’t—manhandle—me—!”

They both pause. Just long enough to realize—they are absolutely just swatting at each other now. Not fully pulling punches. Not fully committing either. Hands slapping wrists, forearms knocking aside movements, stepping into and out of each other’s space like two people who know exactly how strong the other is. And are ignoring it out of sheer irritation.

“Focus!” Steve snaps, blocking another jab. “We need to—”

“—you started this—!”

He tries to square off with something that refuses to cooperate with direction. “I did not—!”

“You invented a fake theory about traffic lights—”

Steve mutters under his breath, already repositioning, “IT’S NOT FAKE—”

“OH MY GOD—”

The voice cuts through everything. “Ahem.” Sharp. Cold. Deeply, deeply unimpressed.

They both freeze.

Slowly they turn. Dr. Alaric Voss stands ten feet away. Or three of him do. Or one. Hard to tell when he keeps… shifting. Slight offsets. One breath ahead, one delayed. Like the universe hasn’t decided which version of him deserves to be here the longest. “…of all the projections I ran,” Voss says, each version of him finishing the sentence at a slightly different time, “this was not one of them.”

Steve straightens immediately. Posture snapping back into something resembling command.

Em doesn’t move right away. Still catching her breath. Still glaring at Steve. Then she finally looks. “…hi,” she says flatly.

He watches them. Hands clasped behind his back and head tilted just enough to convey disappointment. “…I anticipated resistance,” one of him speaks and adds, voice tightening, “I did not account for this.”

Steve exhales sharply through his nose. “We were handling it.”

Voss blinks. Actually blinks, and just stares at him. “…you were hitting each other in the literal epicenter of a multiversal convergence event,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to decide if they’re worth explaining this to, “the primary chamber of a convergence engine built to model higher-order spatial conflict scenarios, and you’re arguing about—” He gestures vaguely. “—color theory.”

Em crosses her arms. “He started it.”

“I did not.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I the one who brought up traffic lights?”

“Because it makes sense—”

“It’s childish idiosyncrasy—"

Voss’s voice cracks through the chamber and the engine responds. “ENOUGH.” Reality pulls tighter for half a second. Like it’s listening. Like it’s waiting. He watches them fail to decide. Smiles. Then doesn’t. Then smiles again, not quite synced. “You’re loud,” he says. Except three of him say it, staggered, overlapping. One amused. One irritated. One already bored. “For intruders.”

“Yeah, we get that a lot,” Steve fires back, a little sharper than necessary.

Em shoots him a look. “Maybe don’t antagonize the unstable physicist sitting inside a broken universe.”

“I’m not antagonizing—I’m—” A pulse rolls off the engine.

“Watch where you—” She slams her palm into his chest to steady herself, just below his collarbone again. “You’re absolutely antagonizing—”

Reality hiccups, the floor shifts, tilts, drops two inches mid-step and Steve stumbles forward into Em, his hand catching her shoulder hard enough to almost spin her off-balance. He lets go instantly. But too late. The red is already there—finger marks blooming quick against her skin.

She stares at it. Then at him. Then, smacks his hand away. Hard. “Oh great,” she flexes her fingers like she’s trying to shake the sting out. “Super soldier grip in a brittle timeline. Fantastic pairing.”

He snaps. “It was an accident—”

Frustration courses through her now, visible and unfiltered. “You always say that—”

He exhales sharply, “I don’t—”

“You do, you just say it better—”

“Can we focus?!”

“On what?” she fires back, gesturing wildly at the engine, at Voss, at the room that won’t sit still long enough to be pointed at. “The man splitting himself into philosophical errors or the device tearing holes in everything we understand?!”

“Yes!” Steve’s singular word hits a beat too loud. Echoes. The room answers.

And then, Dr. Alaric Voss is suddenly ten feet closer. Then behind them. Then both. One of the Vosses laughs. Disbelieving. “You are in my chamber,” he says, stepping forward, no, two of him step, one stays still, and his voice aligns just enough to sound almost continuous. He gestures vaguely between them. “—and you’re arguing like an old married couple—”

Em lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Yeah,” she says. “We get that too.”

Steve sees dust, ruined structures, a skyline collapsing in slow motion. Then it flickers—and he’s back. Except not entirely. He blinks. Hard. “…that wasn’t—”

“Focus,” she mutters again, but it’s not at him this time. It’s at herself. Her gaze shifts—locks onto the central array embedded within the unstable structure of the engine. A core. Just the one currently agreeing to exist. “There,” she says, already moving. “Data spine. Physical memory anchor. If we can pull what they’ve mapped—”

Another pulse, stronger this time, flaring and suddenly the space overlays hard. “We don’t have time—”

“We don’t have a choice,” she snaps, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him a step before letting go just as fast. “Destroying this blind makes it worse.”

Voss’s expression finally cracks into something sharper. “You think you understand it.”

They ignore him. For about half a second.

Steve moves first this time, stepping into the unstable gravity field like it’s just another shifting battlefield. His footing adjusts automatically, recalibrating faster than the distortions can fully throw him off. “Tell me what you need,” he says.

Em’s already at the console, or what passes for one. Half of it is solid metal and interface. The other half flickers between languages that shouldn’t exist and interfaces that respond before she fully touches them. Her fingers hover. Then press.

The system resists.

“Seriously?” she mutters. “You’re going to make this interactive?” It pulses in response. “Okay, good,” she says tightly. “I love puzzles when the puzzle is the universe collapsing.”

“I see it—” Steve’s watching her hands. Watching the room. Watching Voss. Trying to split attention three ways and hating that none of them are stable enough to trust. “Em—”

A flicker behind him. He turns. Too slow because Voss is already there. Or one of him is. The strike comes from the side. Not from the direction Voss is standing.

It hits. Hard. Steve staggers, breath knocked halfway out of him as he pivots into the impact on instinct. “—not fair,” he mutters, shaking it off.

“You’re applying linear expectations to nonlinear existence,” Voss replies, stepping through him, his form overlapping for half a second, electric and cold. “That’s your first mistake.”

Steve turns, swings, contacts nothing. “Yeah, I figured that,” he snaps.

Behind him, Em swears. The console splinters. Half of it glitches out entirely, data flickering into something unreadable. “Come on—” She slams her hand down harder this time, fingers digging into the interface like she can physically force it into staying real for more than a second. “Steve, I need him distracted—” She doesn’t look at him when she says it. “Effectively!”

“Define effective,” he shoots back, already moving again, baiting the space, testing angles, trying to force Voss to commit to a position that stays longer than a blink.

“Alive!” she snaps.

He barks a short, humorless laugh. “Working on it.”

“Come on… come on…” Behind her, data finally stabilizes. For a second. Her hand moves fast. Plugging a drive in, ripping through whatever information the system is willing to give before it changes its mind. Reality stretches—then snaps back just enough to keep them from falling through it entirely. Her stomach drops. But her hands don’t stop. “This isn’t contained,” she murmurs under her breath. Again. But now, she knows how bad.

On the display are fragments, “GLOBAL SITES. PARTIAL EVENTS. TIME SLIPS.” People blinking in and out. Cities skipping seconds. Coordinates that don’t hold still long enough to map.

Steve blocks another hit—this one from an angle that shouldn’t exist relative to where Voss is standing, and growls under his breath, “You almost done?!”

“No!” It’s bleeding outward under Em’s palms. Already. And whatever they do next doesn’t stop it clean. It just decides how bad it gets. “Because I’m trying to stop us from making this worse!”

Steve snaps back. “What’s worse than this!”

She yanks the drive free and plugs in another one for the other data set. “Breaking it without knowing how it breaks everything else!” Em turns—and finally looks at him like he’s missing the point so hard it physically hurts.

Destroy the engine? It doesn’t die everywhere.

Stabilize it? Someone else will take it.

Steal the data? You spread the problem.

“Whatever the options are!” Steve turns too fast, shoulders squaring out of instinct, stance widening—fight-ready, always fight-ready—but there’s nowhere clean trajectory or single target to anchor that instinct anymore. “Pick one and stay there,” he mutters under his breath.

“Working on it,” Em says, already moving—never toward him when things get like this—but sideways, eyes tracking three Vosses at once like she’s trying to triangulate the version that breathes.

And Voss smiles. Just one of him this time. “Since you insist on being here,” he says, voice settling into something colder, sharper, certain. “I suppose I’ll explain what you’re about to fail to stop.”

PHASE 5A — VOSS: CORE CHAMBER — MAY 11, 2012 (WHERE THE ARGUMENT DOESN’T STOP EVEN WHEN IT SHOULD)

Steve notices something else, the way Voss, or one of him is half a step off. Another’s shoulder clips through a shifting before correcting itself like nothing happened.

“Oh, by all means,” Voss says, almost delighted, voice echoing itself by a fraction of a second. “Reduce a non-linear phenomenon into something you can throw a punch at.”

“Yeah,” she mutters at Voss. “Keep telling your arrogant ass that while reality folds itself into origami behind you.”

“Worked so far,” Steve fires back, a little too sharp, a little too immediate because it has, up to this point, and he’s not wrong.

Em shoots him a look. Now? Really?

The floor dips. Steve shifts instinctively—hand snapping out, catching her elbow before she fully tilts into a section where gravity briefly forgets itself. “Careful—”

“Ugh,” Em snaps immediately, wrenching her arm back a fraction harder than necessary. “Quit it with that thing where you act like you’ve got control.”

He cuts in. “I’m keeping you from—”

“You’re reacting,” she cuts in, sharper now. “You’re not controlling anything. Ease up, soldier.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair—fast, frustrated, grounding himself in the only way he can right now. “Better than standing still—”

Em glances between them—then back at the engine—then makes the call anyway. “At least standing still doesn’t pretend it’s solving the problem—”

Behind them, louder this time, the room fractures wider—overlaying something else briefly. A skyline. Collapsed. Gray dust choking the air. Gone before either of them fully processes it.

Voss watches them both. Studying. Calculating. “You disagree on methodology, but not on threat assessment.”

Em snaps her gaze toward him. “Don’t start analyzing me like—”

“Like a system?” Voss finishes smoothly. “Because you are one. Both of you are. Differently calibrated, admittedly—but—”

“—you’re talking too much,” Steve cuts in, stepping forward, hand already coming up, ready to grab, to anchor—something, anything.

Voss doesn’t move. Not one version of him. That’s the problem. “You’re asking the wrong question,” Voss says calmly. “You’re asking how to shut it down.”

“And that’s wrong?” Steve demands.

Em exhales slowly, eyes flicking back to the console, to the data she found wasn't good news. “Shutting it down clean isn’t an option,” she says quietly.

Steve looks at her. “…since when.”

“Since it stopped being one system,” she replies, tapping the panel, pulling up the fractured mapping of the engine’s state. “It’s layered now. You hit one state—two more compensate.”

His jaw tightens. “Then you hit those too—”

“With what?” she snaps, spinning back toward him. “A second set of fists? A third? A fourth until your arm falls off?”

“Would you two—” Voss starts—

They ignore him. Because the argument is louder. Closer. More immediate. “We need a plan,” he says, a little louder than he means to. “If we try hard enough. We can just—”

Em laughs. Not amused. Not even close. “Break it?”

“—yes, break it,” he shoots back.

“You swing at this and you don’t end the problem—you spread it,” she snaps, gesturing at the engine, at the flicker zones creeping outward, at the places where the room already doesn’t know which version of itself it belongs to.

“Then we don’t let it spread,” he says, stepping forward again, forcing himself closer to the machine despite the discomfort crawling under his skin from the instability in the air.

“You don’t get to decide that,” she fires back. “You don’t get to—”

“I don’t get to what? Try?” he snaps.

“You don’t get to treat this like it’s Brooklyn, Steve!” Em snaps right back, spinning on him fully now, voice cracking sharper than she probably intended. “You don’t get to throw a punch and expect the world to behave!”

That lands. Hard.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “And you don’t get to talk like it’s already lost.”

“Oh my god—” Em paces now—short, sharp turns that keep having to adjust when the floor doesn’t hold still long enough for her feet to trust it. “You are not the solution to every problem that breaks containment!” She sighs amd her expression hardens. “At least I’m doing something.”

“You’re not. You’ve been pulling data this entire time like it’s going to magically fix this.” Steve shoots back immediately. “And it’s taking too long—”

“It’s called information,” Em’s hands tighten slightly at her sides. “And rushing it makes it worse—!”

Steve steps forward slightly now, voice cutting sharper than before. “Standing here arguing makes it worse too—”

She drags a hand down her face, “Then stop talking—!”

“Then stop contradicting—!” They stop. Right there. Breathing hard. Standing too close again.

Voss just watches them. “…it’s almost impressive,” he mutters. “You’re both correct. And completely ineffective.”

“That doesn’t help,” Steve says flatly.

“You’re going to make a choice,” Voss continues, voice smoothing out like he’s settling into something he’s been building toward since they walked into his chamber. “You already are, whether you acknowledge it or not. You destroy it,” Voss says, “and you risk destabilizing every point it’s already touched. You contain it,” he continues, “and you guarantee someone else learns from it.”

Neither option is clean or safe. Steve looks at the engine again, then at Em, “Then we split the difference. We pull the data,” he continues, cutting her off, with something grounded even when nothing else is. “We destabilize it enough to shut it down gradually.”

“That leaves a window,” she sees right through his Captain facade.

“Yeah,” he says. “It does. And in that window, we get out,” he finishes.

“How unbearably naive of you. As always.” Em snarls at him. Because she knows and hates that logic. “That doesn’t solve the bigger issue.”

“No,” Steve agrees. “It solves this one.”

Voss smiles. Because now, they’re thinking like him. And they don’t even realize it. “…good,” he murmurs, and tilts his head slightly. All three versions doing it just off-sync enough to make the motion feel wrong. “You’re finally asking the right questions,” he says. Three of him still exist—but they’re… agreeing more. Which is worse. “I told you. You were asking the wrong question. Probably because you’re looking at the aftermath. Not the origin. Small-scale anomalies,” Voss continues, pacing now—three versions of him drifting in slightly different paths before snapping back into rough alignment. “Momentary phase loss. Spatial hiccups. Misaligned physics resolving too quickly for your intelligence to classify it as a pattern.”

PHASE 5B — VOSS (THE PLAN HE THINKS IS INEVITABLE): CORE CHAMBER — MAY 11, 2012 (WHERE BAD IDEAS SOUND LIKE STRATEGY)

Em’s hand tightens at her side. Steve notices. “…you’re saying this started before tonight.”

“I’m saying,” Voss says slowly, almost pleased, voice starting to sync between versions as reality accommodates him instead of resisting him, “—that tonight is simply the first time you noticed.”

Steve’s gaze hardens. “…and this thing,” he says, jerking his head toward the machine, “is causing it.”

“No,” he says. “It’s measuring it.” Voss tilts his head. Like he’s trying to map her against something he already half-believes. “Instability. Damage that already exists. I’m tracking progression.”

“Progression of what? Structural failure? Energy overflow?” Em lets out a humorless breath. “Pick a term we can actually stop.”

Voss’s smile widens. “You think this is structural?” He gestures at the machine, at the flickers, at them. “This is systemic.”

Steve shakes his head, grounding himself, trying to pull this back into something he can work with. “Okay,” he says, forcing it. “Then what’s your end goal.”

“Preparation.” Voss doesn’t hesitate.

Em almost laughs. “That’s not a plan.”

“It’s the only one that survives what’s coming,” he replies, not missing a beat. “You keep talking like there’s something bigger behind this.”

“There is.” The certainty in that answer, immediate and unshaken, is what makes it land, and the same voice drops slightly. “After New York,” he says, almost conversational now, “you all adapted very quickly, didn’t you?”

Steve can feel his shoulders tighten as he snarls at the same time as Em. “We handled it.”

“No. You survived it. And now?” Voss continues. “Now everyone wants control of the next event before it happens.” His gaze flicks briefly at the space beyond them. “Every asset, object, and energy source is being studied. Recovery operations escalating under classified directives across multiple organizations.”

Em’s expression doesn’t change. But her mind is moving. Fast. Aftermath programs. And something A.I.M. should not have access to. Loki's scepter. The Infinity Stones. “You’re building a model,” she says slowly.

Voss nods. “Of how systems fail under external pressure,” he replies. “Of how reality behaves when exposed to forces it wasn’t designed to accommodate.”

Steve scoffs. “…you sound like every weapons developer I’ve ever put down.”

“And you sound like every soldier who thinks stopping one threat stops the next,” Voss shoots back.

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Difference is,” he says, quieter now, “most of them didn’t tear their own foundations apart trying to prove a point.”

Voss’s expression doesn’t soften. “Well. It’s already tearing,” he says flatly. “I’m simply accelerating observation.”

Em’s mind clicks through options instinctively, faster than she can voice them. “…I’m not exactly a saint like him, but even I gotta admit you’re forcing pressure spikes. Breaking thresholds to map failure faster.” She shakes her head. “That’s not control. That’s provoking collapse.”

Voss’s expression shifts. Interest. “You still think this is something you can end,” he says softly. “No. It’s learning where it breaks first.”

Steve exhales sharply. “…people are getting caught in that.”

“Collateral exists in every system,” Voss replies calmly. “That’s not avoidable. Think of all the wars you fought, Captain.”

Steve glances at Em and her hands already plugging, adjusting, data handling. Then turns back to Voss. “So here’s the part you’re not getting. Whatever you think you’re preparing for—this ends here.”

The system flickers into a new state, unstable and temporary.

“Almost there,” Em’s voice cuts through it all—sharply sorting again through the second to last batch of key files. Focused. “Steve,” she says under her breath. He doesn’t look at her. But he hears the shift. “We don’t stop him by arguing,” she continues, fingers moving faster now through the unstable interface. “We pull what we can and destabilize the cycle.”

Voss exhales slowly. And for the first time—looks almost disappointed. “I haven’t even started explaining the implications,” he says.

“That’s fine. You’re not going to get the chance.” Steve doesn’t wait for him to keep talking. He’s already had enough of the smirking. Enough of the half‑answers. His hand lifts him clean off the ground, boots scraping uselessly against a floor that isn’t even staying horizontal anymore. “Stop dancing around it. You keep saying this doesn’t end here—so say what does.”

Voss’s misaligned body jitters in Steve’s grip. One version of him hangs higher. Another lags. A third flickers behind his shoulder like an after-mirage that refuses to leave. And still—he smiles. “Oh, there it is. The point where you finally realize brute force won’t save you. If you kill me, you lose the information you need," he breathes, uneven but thrilled, gaze flicking to Em, "—And she dies.”

"I won't let that happen." Steve jerks him slightly. “Talk.”

“Fine,” Voss says, breath catching, then steadying like he’s slipping into a lecture he’s rehearsed too many times. “You want scale? You want context? You want something that explains why this”—he jerks his chin toward the fractured engine—“exists at all?” Then, he stops pretending this is just about A.I.M. “This began long before tonight,” he says. “Before Berlin. Before your mission logs. Before you even recognized the pattern. New York changed everything. You think it ended with that battle,” Voss continues. “You think the alien came, lost, and that was the end of it.”

“Again. It was handled,” Steve says flatly in time with Em. "The Avengers stepped in."

“No,” he says. “It was revealed.” Voss lets out a short laugh. “Do you remember what powered that invasion?” He presses, voice sharpening. “What opened the sky? What held that gate open long enough to let a Chitauri army through? The Tesseract. The jewel of Odin’s treasure room,” The doctor murmurs mockingly, quoting like he’s savoring it. “Something that one not buries.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “You quoting ghosts now?” he mutters.

“I’m quoting foresight,” Voss snaps. He leans forward slightly in Steve’s grip—like gravity is optional as long as conviction holds. “I have seen the future, Captain! There are no flags!” He repeats, voice rising, fragmented versions of him overlapping the line out of sync. “And you know what makes that statement interesting?” he adds, quieter now.

Steve exhales slowly. “…You’re building your plan off the ramblings of a dead fanatic.”

“No,” Voss says. “You all laughed it off,” Voss says. “Madness. Delusion. A man consumed by something he didn’t understand. What if he wasn’t wrong?”

Another flicker of green light—just for a second. The room goes quieter. Em steps back toward the console. That's what gives her away.

For the first time—there’s a flicker of something like irritation. “I’m building it off the fact that he touched it,” he says. “The same way others have. The same way your ‘enemies’ continue to pursue it.” He pauses and lets that sit. Then drops the word—“HYDRA.”

Steve sees it. “…what about HYDRA,” Steve says slowly.

Voss’s gaze cuts to Em again. “Oh, they never stopped,” he says softly. “You think they died with a name and a symbol?” He laughs under his breath. “They adapted. They went deeper. Smaller cells. Broader reach. Less visible infrastructure. And they’re chasing the same thing we are.” He smiles. “The strongest power source in existence,” he says. “Not theoretical. Not hypothetical. Proven. Demonstrated. Objects that bend reality not because they’re misused,” he continues, “but because they define the rules being broken.”

Steve’s grip tightens. “You mean the Tesseract. The Space Stone.”

“I mean all of them,” Voss corrects quietly. “There isn’t just one. There never was. Different signatures and properties. Same tier of influence. The invasion was proof of concept. A single source weaponizing one aspect of that scale—and you barely contained it. Now imagine multiple organizations learning from that.”

Steve tilts his head. He doesn’t like where this is going. “…A.I.M.,” he mutters.

“And HYDRA,” Voss cuts in immediately. “Working in parallel. Separately. Competing. You just happen to be standing in the more successful lab.”

The console behind Em glitches—data flashing coordinates that don't stabilize. That’s when it happens. Em falters. Barely visible. Her hand pauses over the interface for half a fraction too long.

And Steve sees it. His head turns slightly, eyes narrowing. “…what does that mean,” he asks quietly.

Voss doesn’t answer. Not directly. “I went underground,” he says instead. “Off-grid. No oversight. No interference.” His smile sharpens. “No ideology. No loyalty. Just progression. And while HYDRA rebuilt its mythology…” He spreads his hands slightly. “I built results.”

Em unsteady breathing—that’s what sets something off in Steve. Because she never slips like that. “…Em,” he says.

She doesn’t look at him. Voss watches both of them. And realizes—he hit something. “You recognize this,” he says softly.

Em closes her eyes—just for a second. Too slow. Too late. “Careful,” she says. But there’s not enough bite in it.

Steve looks between them now. “…what is he talking about.”

“You were there when it started,” Voss continues, voice sharpening now, leaning into it. “She knows,” Voss says. “She knows what happens when power like this isn’t controlled. Because she comes from the only system that ever tried to define it.”

Steve’s voice hardens. “Say it clearly or I drop you.”

“Fine.” Voss smiles again. “Balance fails,” he says. “Systems expand beyond their limits. Worlds collapse into each other. Matter breaks down at a structural level.” His voice lowers. “And something forces correction. You left that correction unfinished,” he says, pointing—not physically, but directly at her now. “You hesitated. You chose self over system.”

“That’s enough—” Em’s breathing sharpens, voice turning dangerous. “You don’t know anything about—”

Voss cuts in, louder now, conviction cracking through him. “I know enough. Enough to see that everything happening now—every instability, every convergence vector, every collapse impact—” He leans forward against Steve’s grip. “—traces back to that failure. It’s the truth. You walked away from your function.”

PHASE 5C — VOSS (WHEN HIS THEORY STOPS SOUNDING LIKE THEORY): CORE CHAMBER — WHERE SOMEONE FINALLY SAYS IT OUT LOUD

It snaps. Not the machine. Not yet. But Steve does.

The moment Voss smiles again—that calm, measured, pleased look like they’re finally speaking his language—Steve’s patience fractures clean through. He moves. “Enough,” Steve growls, voice low, dangerous, the kind that scrapes the air instead of filling it. “You’re going to stop talking in circles and you’re going to explain exactly what this is.” His grip tightens. Just enough.

For half a second—all three versions of Voss try to exist in that moment. Two of them flicker. The third staying. “That’s the thing. If A.I.M. doesn’t do this—if I don’t—HYDRA will.” Voss’s eyes flick to Em. He continues calmly, almost kindly, like he’s explaining something inevitable to children. “They already are. You wanna know how? Stone recovery. Signal triangulation. Temporal inference engines seeded across old infrastructure.” He chuckles under his breath. “Did you really think they stopped after losing a name?” He coughs once, then exhales, eyes sharpening as his focus returns. “You want the plan? You want the difference between what I’m doing and what you think I’m doing?”

Steve doesn’t respond. He just holds him higher. “…how much larger.”

Voss’s smile sharpens. And for a moment, his fragmented selves stabilizes completely, stops talking like a scientist, then starts sounding like a man who believes he already won. “This doesn’t end here. This,” He gestures weakly toward the fractures tearing the chamber apart, “is not the event. It’s a symptom. A preview of a limited-scale expression of something much larger already building momentum.”

Silence slams into the room. Steve frowns. “…what.”

“Every projection I’ve run,” Voss continues, voice steadier now despite the position, as if he’s speaking from somewhere deeper than his body, “every model, every extrapolated collapse curve—converges on the same outcome.” He smiles again. “In approximately thirteen years… correction occurs.”

Reality tightens but Steve doesn’t notice. Because all he can hyperfocus on is Em. The pause in her breathing. The stiffness in her fingers. And that worries him more than anything Voss has said. “…correction?” Steve repeats slowly. “…you’re talking about extinction.”

“No,” Voss replies immediately. And he means it. “I’m talking about equilibrium. Stability that reasserts itself. By removing everything that prevents it.” The words hang there. Heavy. Wrong.

The engine surges. T‑01:42.

Em’s jaw tightens.

Voss doesn’t miss it. “You’ve heard versions of this before,” he says, gaze locking on her now, almost eager. “Balance. Necessary loss. Weighted outcomes. Except,” Voss continues, “back then—it required force. But now," he adds softly, "it happens naturally.”

Steve shakes his head. “No,” he says flatly. “That’s not how anything works.”

“No,” Voss says quietly, voice threaded with something darker now, voice gaining intensity, breath uneven now as his certainty pushes past whatever fear should be there. “That’s not how it used to work. Without intervention, systems expand beyond their capacity to coexist.” He turns his head slightly toward how the chamber flickers, walls pushing through each other, floors overlapping, air tearing. A flicker. A war room. A battlefield. Gone. “Imagine it, Captain. Every possible variation of reality occupying the same structural foundation. No containment. No pruning. No hierarchy. They don’t merge. They collide. Planets intersect. Physics contradicts itself. Matter stretches beyond cohesion reducing everything to unusable particulate energy.”

“You’d call it theoretical,” Voss goes on, “if I hadn’t already observed early stage behavior. Partial overlaps. Temporal slips. You’ve seen them. You’ve felt them.”

Steve doesn’t answer. Because yeah—he has. His grip tightens because that sounds like something you can’t fight. “And when the system can’t sustain that pressure?”

“It fails.” Voss smiles. “But there was something supposed to reset it. There was a corrective mechanism. Something designed to manage imbalance at a level no artificial system could replicate. And it failed. Or rather, it refused.,” His gaze doesn’t leave her, he corrects himself, voice sharpening, “You want to know why I’m doing this?” he continues, ignoring her entirely now. “Why I’m forcing convergence events early—even at limited scale?”

Steve’s grip tightens again. “…enlighten me.”

Voss watches Em. Not Steve. “They never stopped,” he says quietly. “They adapted. They learned. They’re already studying the same phenomena—same instability vectors—same sources of energy.” He tilts his head slightly. “They just call it something else.”

Steve looks at her again. Really looks this time. “…Em.”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. Because whatever he’s saying—it’s close enough to something real to matter.

T‑01:18.

Voss smiles faintly. “She understands exactly what happens when systems like this fall into the wrong hands.” He says softly.. “Because she built one once.”

That lands like a dropped weight. Steve stiffens. “…that’s not—”

“She chose wrong,” Voss presses, voice rising slightly now, pushing past restraint into something accusatory, something personal. “She had the capacity to stabilize, a natural predisposition to control—to define outcomes by ensnaring the senses, brewing fame, and bottling glory. And instead?” Voss continues. “She chose hesitation. Individual morality. Preservation.”

Steve’s grip tightens harder now. “Watch it—”

“I am,” Voss snaps back. “Because this—this entire scenario, it exists because that choice delayed correction! Naive ideologies,” Voss spits, voice cracking under the force of his own conviction. “Sentimentality. Humanity.” He laughs again. “Humanity,” he repeats. As if it’s the punchline. “And now,” he continues, breath uneven, gaze locked forward, “the system builds pressure again. Same imbalance. Same inevitable collapse. And this time?” His eyes flick to Em. “It won’t hesitate.”

Em exhales slowly. “…you’re insane.”

“That man,” Voss continues, voice gaining momentum, “touched the Space Stone and survived long enough to be judged by it. His voice fractures as he quotes it, one version of him choking on the words, another savoring them. “The Tesseract has shown me the future. I am destined for glory.”

Steve’s grip tightens around Voss’s collar. “How do you know that.”

T‑00:57.

Voss looks at him. Really looks. “Temporal magic,” he says simply.

The room flickers—just for a heartbeat—into something else. A cliff painted with purple shadows. A sky that isn’t Earth’s. Gone. “And when it deemed him unworthy?” Voss goes on. “It didn’t kill him. It reassigned him. You think that’s coincidence?” Voss presses. “No. It’s classification. Systems deciding where pieces belong. And HYDRA?” Voss says softly. “They understand that now. They’re building machines to find them. To scrape the planet for signatures that shouldn’t exist.” He looks at Em again. “You know this. You went underground. Off-grid. Nomad. No flags.” He laughs. “That’s why A.I.M. found more. Faster.”

"This is senile. Pointless." Steve doesn’t think. He just lets go. "You're pointless."

CORE CHAMBER — T‑00:46

Em doesn’t decide. She executes.

The space between her and Voss collapses in a way that makes Steve’s brain lags half a beat behind his eyes. One second she’s kneeling at the console, fingers hovering over a panel that can’t agree on whether it exists, and the next she’s already moving, body cutting through unstable gravity like it’s an inconvenience instead of a threat.

Steve opens his mouth. Doesn’t get a word out. Because she’s already there.

Her hand snaps up—not glowing, but uncharged—just a set of placed fingers locking into a narrow hollow under Voss’s jaw at the exact pressure point right where muscle, nerve, and blood pressure intersect. It’s not pretty or kind. But it’s the kind of move that predates ideology and doesn’t care how clever the target thinks he is.

Military. Old. Practiced into muscle memory until hesitation is removed entirely.

Voss’s eyes widen. All of them. One version of him tries to slip sideways, half a step into a probability that offers less resistance like a chess piece knocked mid‑move. Another lags, half a second slower, mouth still forming the shape of a word of conviction that never finishes.

Em twists, drives her weight through it with the kind of practiced certainty that comes from knowing exactly how much force it takes to end a conversation forever. And drops him.

There’s a sharp, dull sound—air forced out of lungs too fast. Voss hits the floor with a terminal thud that echoes wrong, the sound bending as it passes through overlapping states of the room. All versions collapse inward, align just long enough to agree on one thing—unconscious.

The silence afterward is a vacuum, with the calm from his absence.

Steve ignores the body and stares at her. His chest rises too fast. His breath catches halfway through like his lungs forgot the sequence. The words come out before he can stop them, stripped of rank or strategy. “…you didn’t warn me.”

Em doesn’t turn around. Her shoulders are still squared, spine rigid like she’s braced for retaliation that isn’t coming. Her fingers flex once at her side—subtle, involuntary—like she’s trying to shake the phasing sensation passed from Voss out of her hand. “I didn’t have time.”

T‑00:41

The engine answers her. It doesn’t hum anymore. There’s sound and air compressing violently, snapping against Steve’s ears, rattling his teeth, smearing his vision like the room itself blinked. The chamber folds inward a fraction, walls leaning where walls should never lean, the floor dipping like gravity just remembered it exists and is now overcorrecting.

Steve snaps back into motion like someone flipped a switch. “Okay—okay—” he barks, words tumbling over each other as he moves, hands gesturing like motion itself might anchor reality. “Hard shutdown. We overload it now—”

“No.” Em’s voice cuts through him—sharp, immediate. “That implodes everything in range.”

“Em—”

She gestures violently around them, voice cracking just enough to betray the strain she’s holding back. “Walls. Floors.” She repeats, louder now, spinning on him fully. “That turns this chamber into a crater and rewrites whatever history it feels like on the way out. Including us.”

“Then Option B,” he presses, voice cracking around the edges now. “Stabilize it. Freeze the convergence.”

“That leaves the research intact!” she shouts back, the words bouncing against the chamber’s warped acoustics, echoing wrong, overlapping itself like the room is arguing with her volume.

Time is no longer passing in seconds. It’s passing in mistakes not yet made.

The engine presses. Like a hand on the back of the skull. Like the room itself has leaned in close enough to whisper, choose wrong and I erase you. The floor keeps disagreeing with gravity. The walls stutter between steel and ruin and something older that remembers being buried. Every pulse knocks loose dust that shouldn’t exist, sparks that fall sideways, fragments of light that don’t fade so much as give up.

T‑00:29

And Em is kneeling in the middle of it. Not centered. Not safe. Exactly where the thing can kill her fastest. The console shrieks. A progress bar flashes into existence. Her fingers move anyway. They’ve stopped shaking—not because she isn’t afraid, but because fear has run out of places to go. It’s all in her chest now, a tight, choking pressure that makes every breath feel borrowed.

Em’s breath stutters. Her hand dives into her jacket and comes back with a slim black USB—her own. Her USB. Black. Unmarked. Untraceable. Scratched at one corner from a different mission, a different night, a different decision she never finished regretting.

She hesitates. Because she knows what it means. Still. She jams it into the port with a force that borders on desperation.

Steve notices. “…you’re making copies.”

“Two,” she snaps. “Always two.”

The console resists—flickers, tries to become something else—but she presses harder, knuckles whitening, jaw locked like she’s daring the machine to argue with her. The screen stabilizes just enough to mock her.

DOWNLOADING… 12%

Steve is pacing behind her. Not helping. Not leaving. Just moving like motion might keep him from thinking. “Come on,” he mutters, not sure who he’s talking to. “Come on—come on—”

The chamber lurches again. He catches himself on a railing that wasn’t there a second ago. His comm crackles—Maria Hill’s voice almost breaks through. Then dies. Gone. Underground. Cut off. Alone.

DOWNLOADING… 29%

“Em,” he says, voice tight. “We’re losing time.”

“I know,” she snaps, eyes locked on the bar. “I can see numbers.”

DOWNLOADING… 37%

The engine pulses harder. The air buckles. A fracture tears open across the far wall, showing something else entirely for half a second—an empty skyline, buildings mid-collapse, a future that never asked permission—

Gone. Steve swallows. “…this is already active.”

DOWNLOADING… 42%.

“Yes,” she says. “And if you say ‘we should abort’ I will personally kill you before the engine does.”

The bar jumps. DOWNLOADING… 47%

“Maria—Hill—do you read—” he shouts into the dead comm. Static answers him. Then nothing. The clock ticks louder in his head. He drags a hand through his hair, panic finally punching through the discipline he’s been holding together with sheer will.

DOWNLOADING… 51%.

The engine surges again, hard enough to shove Steve sideways. He catches himself on instinct, boots skidding on a floor that briefly becomes something else entirely.

Steve can feel the mission punching through the discipline he’s been holding together with sheer will. His breathing is too fast now. His heart is slamming hard enough to feel in his throat. “Then what—?!” he demands, and this time there’s no command voice left, just raw urgency."What's the plan?"

DOWNLOADING… 78%

Em looks away from him. She’s watching the bar. Her eyes drop to the console. Watching the wires. Watching the way the room keeps trying to tear itself apart around them. To the data already ripping itself free in violent, jagged bursts of light and corrupted symbols that won’t sit still long enough to read. Her jaw tightens. “…Option C.”

Steve blinks. “That wasn’t an option.”

“It is now.” The bar hits DOWNLOADED… 100% with a sharp chime that feels obscene in this room.

She rips the data drive free with a brutal yank and shoves it into Steve’s jacket pocket hard enough to knock the breath out of him. “Get this out,” she snaps, fingers curling into his suit like she might physically anchor the order into him. “Even if I don’t.”

“What are you—” He grabs her wrist. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“No. I’m not going.” The engine screams again in beat with her adrenaline's clockwork pulse.

Steve steps closer to her. “You pull the data and we go.”

"Rogers. Listen to me." Em whips her head up. “You go.”

“What?” He finally turns. Eyes sharp. Wet. Determined.

“Get the drive out,” she says. “If this doesn’t work—if I don’t—”

Her jaw tightens. “Don’t go soft on me now, Rogers.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” she fires back. “You hesitate, you die. You hesitate, this thing takes half the city with it.”

“Em—”

She cuts him off, "Stop." For the first time ever, this has been the softest her voice went.

“No matter the blood in your ledger or the last names you insist upon yourself and the secrets you keep under your sleeve, I know one thing to be true. You’re my partner,” he blurts. “And you’re the only one who seems to know how HYDRA thinks—and somehow hates them as much as I do. I need you.”

“This isn’t survival—this is—this is you getting attached,” she cuts in.

“Yeah.” Steve corrects her. “And right now my attachment and emotional contamination is gonna help you get out of here even more.”

The clock flares into existence in his peripheral vision.

T‑00:17

She rips the panel fully open. “Fine!” she snaps. “Hold this panel open. Grab the pliers.”

PHASE 6A — THE DISARM — MAY 11, 2012 (AND THE THING THEY DO INSTEAD OF DYING)

They drop together. Knees slam into the floor Hard enough to bruise. Steve braces the panel with both hands, muscles screaming as the metal flickers between solid and not, his grip tightening every time gravity forgets what it’s supposed to do. “Okay,” he pants. “Okay—what do you need—”

Em’s fingers fly—cutting insulation, separating leads, swearing under her breath as wires shift colors mid‑movement.

Blue. Red. Green.

Wrong. Right. None of it stable.

“Blue wire,” she mutters, then snarls as it flickers. “No—wait—damn it—”

“Blue!” Steve shouts, voice cracking. “Cut the blue one—!”

“Oh, because of the Traffic Light Theory?!” she yells back, half‑laughing, half‑sobbing as sweat drips down her jaw.

“Yes!” he screams. “Because red is stop and green is a trap and blue is—just cut it!”

PHASE 6A — THE KISS — MAY 11, 2012 (WHEN NOTHING ELSE IS SAFE)

She looks up. And for one impossible second, everything else disappears. No engine. No chamber. No clock. Just him and those storm‑blue eyes—wide, terrified, alive. Not Captain America even when he had gone through staring death in the eye countless other times. Right now, he’s just not the symbol of hope amidst turmoil. Just a man who refuses to lose another person he didn’t know how to protect

Capsicle returns the fond gaze into Em’s dark, endless brown, flecked with gold. The abyss he always looks too long into when he thinks she isn’t watching.

It’s too much to handle. So Steve just now stands there with his eyes closed.

That’s the part that breaks something in her. Not the danger. Not the engine. Not the certainty that this room has already made up its mind about them. It’s the fact that he has chosen not to look. That he has taken himself out of the argument entirely, not to be brave, not to be dramatic, but because he has decided, quietly—that whatever happens next will happen without him trying to wrestle it into shape.

He looks younger like this. Stripped of tension. Jaw set, but not clenched. Breathing steady, as if he’s already accepted the outcome and doesn’t want to fight the moment by filling it with noise.

It feels wrong. It feels unfair. It feels like something she is not prepared to let stand as his last posture in the world. She watches him for half a second longer than she should. Watches the rise and fall of his chest. The way his shoulders settle, heavy with a kind of trust that has no business existing here. The way he is giving the universe permission to end the conversation without his input.

T‑00:06

“It was nice knowing you,” he chokes.

Her hands shake. Just once. Then she grabs his face. Both hands. Hard. Like if she lets go now, the universe will take him too.

It's heavy unexplained but unmistakably, desperation, and the pure want and need of choosing him in the exact moment he had prepared himself to be alone.

She doesn’t decide to kiss him.

But she does. That’s when she moves. Not fast. Not slow. Just forward.

He freezes for a fraction of a second. Then she pulls him in. His eyes close. So do hers. There is no clear moment where the thought forms, no internal sentence that resolves into action. What happens instead is that everything else—every instruction, every protocol, every carefully trained response—falls away all at once, and what’s left is the unbearable awareness that there is no more room to wait.

The distance between them collapses without ceremony, and her hands slide down to grip the front of his jacket, fingers curling into fabric like she’s afraid he might disappear if she doesn’t anchor him to something solid. The pull is abrupt, ungraceful, driven entirely by momentum that has nowhere else to go.

Her mouth meets his before he opens his eyes. The contact is imperfect—off-angle, a little too sudden, born out of impulse rather than intention—but it lands with a weight that makes the rest of the room recede. Not vanish. Just… stop mattering.

Steve’s eyes fly open in shock. For a fraction of a heartbeat, he doesn’t respond. His body hasn’t caught up yet. Surprise freezes him in place, caught between instinct and understanding.

Then his hands move. They come up automatically, settling at her sides, then higher—uncertain at first, then surer—as if his body recognizes the significance before his mind has time to interfere. His fingers tighten slightly, just present, acknowledging that this is happening and he is not imagining it, learning the slope of her figure and testing how the silky bodice hugs her tight and just right. He kisses her back with everything he had like it’s the last decision he gets to make. Like someone answering a question that has already been asked. There is no flourish to it. No sweeping gesture. Just contact, pressure, the simple fact of another person, somehow, and their mouth fitting together perfectly with his.

T‑00:03

She breaks away with a sob, turns back on shaking legs, and cuts the blue wire. Nothing happens. For half a second—nothing. Then the engine howls. Reality tears outward instead of inward. Light floods the chamber, white and blinding and wrong, pressure ripping away from itself as the floor dissolves beneath them. And the clock—stops.

T‑00:00

She recovers from breaking away from the kiss through a sob tearing out of her chest, turns back on shaking legs, and cuts the blue wire. Nothing happens. For half a second—nothing.

The world does not end.

That realization comes slowly, creeping in around the edges of the moment like light returning after a power outage. There is no explosion, no rupture, no sudden absence of gravity. The universe does not seem impressed by what they’re doing, which feels absurdly, profoundly unfair.

Then, they realize they broke apart only because they need to breathe. Not because the moment is finished. Just because oxygen is still a requirement.

They stay close. Too close. Foreheads nearly touching, breath uneven, neither of them quite sure where to put their hands now that they’ve stopped moving. The space between them feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with what they’ve just done without permission.

She stares at him. Really looks. As if checking to make sure he’s still there. Still solid. Still breathing.

Her mouth opens once, closes again. When she finally speaks, her voice is not sharp, not controlled—just honest in a way that surprises her. “…that,” she says, swallowing, “was an uncomfortable moment.”

"I mean, not the kiss, god no, that was fucking amazing, but the moment following the kiss." The words come out slightly breathless, as if they escaped before she could stop them.

"Shh. It's okay." Steve blinks. Looks around. Then back at her. The corner of his mouth twitches, uncertain, like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to feel what he’s feeling. “I’m… alright,” he says slowly. “I think? Yeah. I’m actually fine.”

She lets out a sound that might be a laugh, might be something else entirely. She lifts one hand, rubs it over her face, then drops it again, clearly unsure what to do with herself now that the thing she thought was about to end everything… didn’t. “This,” she mutters, more to herself than to him, “is not how this was supposed to go.”

He nods. Not emphatically. Just enough. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I didn’t have that on my list either.”

They don’t step back. They don’t address what just happened. They don’t label it. They just stand there, breathing the same air, close enough that retreat would feel like a decision—and neither of them is ready to make another one yet. And for the first time since this mission began, the danger is not the loudest thing in the room.

The comms return. In no time, Quinjets arrive thanks to Nick Fury. And the animosity between the two has leveled.

Only to be replaced by the past bleeding in slowly.

PHASE 6B: MAY 11, 2012 — RESOLUTION OF THEIR FIRST MISSION

They hit the platform edge together. The would‑be operative who was housing Voss underground—disguised as a SHIELD contractor at the party earlier, but is actually a master HYDRA agent who managed to recruit the Mad Doctor, from the look of him and his dashing smile faltering, pressing his hand against his dapper suit—freezes when Em steps forward and recognizes her like she belongs there. Like one of his figures of former authority. She speaks quietly. No raised voice. No threat.

Three seconds later, the weapons are on the ground and the guests are shaking like leaves at the onset of frost.

Steve watches, stunned, as ivy crawls across a duffel bag and locks it shut with surgical precision. No collateral damage. No fear invoked beyond what’s necessary.

She turns back to him. “Next time, try not to break face until we’re done.”

“I didn’t—”

“Mhm,” she hums brightly. “You do this thing with your eyebrows when you’re processing betrayal. It’s very expressive.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

The station settles. Sirens recede. No explosion. No casualties.

Steve exhales slowly. “You could’ve told me you were… this.”

She arches a brow. “I told you I was efficient.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Her gaze lingers on him, assessing—not flirtatious, not kind. Measuring. “Careful, Captain. Curiosity is how infiltration works.”

fandoms:

✦ MCU / The Avengers / Winter Soldier reimagined

✦ 2012–2019 timeline diverged

✦ espionage, HYDRA, and things going very wrong

ships/pairings:

✦ bucky barnes × reader × steve rogers

✦ complicated loyalties + worse timing

summary: A HYDRA bunker collapses in the Alps. A message gets through. Bucky Barnes, a seventy-year-old ghost runs. Intel burns. By the time the fallout reaches Brooklyn before sunrise, Steve Rogers stays up to see the proof that the war never ended—and nothing that follows is accidental. The plate nails Steve square in the face. CRACK. Steve collapses backward with a very un‑Captain-America‑like sound. “What the hell was that!” he shouts, clutching his head. Em smiles, "Don't worry. You look infinitely more attractive when you're bruised, miserable, and bloody. It's like makeup for men." He groans. “Please stop complimenting me while assaulting me.” And she still doesn’t stop, much to his misery.

pairings: James “Bucky” Barnes × Rogue!HYDRAFounder!Reader/OC; Steve Rogers × Rogue!HYDRAFounder!Reader/OC

word count: 20-chapter draft kinda-sorta reached 57k (insane? I KNOW. shoot me)

warnings/tags: Violence (graphic & non‑graphic), genocide and mass death references, war crimes, imprisonment, torture (physical & psychological), mind control, coercion, execution, abuse by authority figures, religious & cosmic trauma, time/reality manipulation, moral injury, ethically compromised protagonists. Not a romanticized portrayal of violence. Reader discretion advised.

Notes from the Mad Poet: Em Montenaro wasn’t recruited into HYDRA. She built it. This "Incursions—Avengers (Reimagined)" Series is all about surviving the your creation instead of pretending it wasn’t yours, learning where the universe breaks—and standing there anyway despite not believing in destiny or clean hands. Eons passed, and she gave in to her mother’s lessons of incursions, and ash. As for dear old dad, well... he liked to call himself inevitable. Then taught her a few tricks on how to make that stick. So, you could say time had its own devious mischief, and she learned how to stop fighting him bleeding into her stride.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆ ˚. ݁₊ ⊹ .

Written by: @malalanalala on AO3, IG, Tumblr (The Mad Poet’s Diary) — 3000x of love for you guys, and your endless support; wishing for yours too in reading this first fic in a long line of the "Incursions — Avengers: Reimagined" fanfic series. Masterlist coming soon! Since TWS chapters are already locked and loaded by my lazy ass.

Will be taking all the stupid with me, for all time and always,

Lala Donal.

Chapter 1: TRANSFER COMPLETE

Cold Open — ALPS — EXT. HYDRA BUNKER FACILITY — NIGHT

The alarm doesn’t scream.

It thrums—low, invasive, built to slip past panic and drill straight into the nervŵous system. The kind of sound designed by people who know exactly how long it takes a human spine to break.

A vault door drops with a metallic KA‑THUNK, sealing a corridor in concrete and steel.

Too late.

The tile in the floor erupts. A metal hand punches through first, then a shoulder, then a body—dragging itself up with sheer, furious refusal. Bucky Barnes hauls himself out of the hole like the ground rejected him.

Black tactical jumpsuit. Holsters scuffed with use. The left arm gleams—brushed steel, scarred and seamless, humming faintly like it remembers every impact it’s ever taken.

On his feet now, he doesn’t hesitate. He just pulls a smartphone from a chest pocket. Not a prototype. Not flashy. Just old‑school reinforced—cracked screen, custom firmware, the kind of phone that survives being thrown off buildings.

The vault tower opens. A widescreen monitor slides free. Bucky turns his face away immediately. He’s seen this before. He doesn’t want to see it again. The phone vibrates.

TRANSFER IN PROGRESS.

Something slams into the vault door from the outside. Voices shout. Boots hit steel. Bucky doesn’t look up. The monitor flashes wildly, stuttering images smearing together fast enough to bypass language. And what better things to confuse computers with than human emotion-filled memories?

Namely, a roller coaster cresting at dawn. A cracked boardwalk on Coney Island. A red‑white‑blue umbrella on a sunny day. A frail boy laughing breathlessly, shouting at a significantly taller boy, "Tell me the riddle again!"

A drill bores into the door. Bucky’s hand closes around a black cube. He checks it once. Arms it. The phone vibrates again.

TRANSFER COMPLETE.

He rips the phone free, replaces it with the cube, and dives back through the floor. The vault seals. The cube detonates. Fire blooms and devours Project COBRA like it never existed.

INT. ALPS — CORRIDORS OF A HYDRA BUNKER — NIGHT

[George Michael’s “Freedom” hits—absurd, perfect for the moment, and defiant]

Bucky drops through a ceiling panel and runs. A guard appears. Bucky fires a dart. It nails the elevator call button. Doors open. He slides inside, slams the roof access. The elevator screams upward.

EXT. ROOF — NIGHT

Wind. City lights. A helicopter swooping in too late. Bucky sprints, phone primed.

Numbers scroll:

CONEY THREE. SEAGULL SEVEN.. IRON FIVE…

CRACK!

He stumbles, as the grenade he’s thrown at the guards and agents behind him fall down, his ears ring as a black-haired witch screams after him, "White Wolf!" Blasting a restrained energy blast he knows is deliberate to keep him safe, shouting, "Don't make me hurt you! Stand down!" Making him falter in guilt, but doesn’t slow.

CRACK! CRACK!

His thumb hovers over SEND. He looks up at the helicopter. Too far. He hits send anyway. The phone leaves his hand as he falls, skidding across the rooftop.

Five guards rush him. A commander looks at his palm as he dashes away.

Empty.

Em, his handler, and her sharp eyes find the phone, twenty feet away from where he escaped.

Recipient: STEVE

The dye cast. The phone explodes. The dice rolled. And the irreverrsible coin tossed.

INT. STEVE’S APARTMENT — BROOKLYN — LATER

Steve Rogers stares at his laptop. On the wall behind it: a framed photo of two skinny kids on the Coney Island boardwalk—salt in their hair, reckless grins, one of them holding a paper crown. Steve leans forward, heart pounding.

An email. From an old ghost. And an old Brooklyn university e-mail address.

Both supposed to be long gone and long dead.

Now staring back at him.

Odd.

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT: One, what walks on wood, tastes like salt; Two, still makes you laugh when you’re scared; And three, holds the line when you think you're all alone?

Steve doesn’t smile. He types the answer.

"The stupid blonde Captain. The sniper General. And the brunette Sergeant." He pauses. "Respectively."

PASSWORD ACCEPTED.

The screen floods. Images. Subliminal patterns. Rapid‑fire flashes:

A red hydra crest.

A man with a metal arm, staring, standing calmly amid grey and black grain.

An awfully familliar black-haired woman with a diamond ring, gold heels, and smirking in a trench coat holding a gun to a CCTV.

Another one of the same woman in a wig and a tactical suit, perched on the ledge of a skyscraper, with a Lapua Magnum 6.22 sniper rifle, loading her handmade ice bullets, and positioning.

Operatives. Cells. Sleeper agents. Enemies from SHIELD and other agencies. Redacted files. Names, a myriad of them—himself (information of when he went to WW2, the ice, the Avengers), Howard Stark, and his death, Fury, Zemo, Strucker, Hill, Romanoff, Peggy Carter, collaterals, innocents, world leaders, tyrants—erased from public records. Identities, governments, lives wiped from existence.

Steve blinks. Sunlight pours through the window. The clock reads 7:01 A.M.

He collapses.

INT. BROOKLYN RESTAURANT — DAY

A beloved diner from the ‘20s that’s seen better days. A myriad of different people’s memories, celebrations, proposals, and deep conversations. Just a quaint joint with mismatched chairs, coffee all black, and a chalkboard menu with good ol soup for the soul, English style muffins, breakfast waffles with a side of Hungarian sasusages and buttery scrambled eggs.

Almost so ordinary that none of the customers, couples on dates, and family packs would figure there was a government bunker underneath it. A contingency set-up for a possible rogue metal-armed embodiment of everything that made Steve crash the plane into the ice with him inside it, instead of just jumping out and saving himself.

The said star-spangled, yearner man works the counter, apron on, sleeves rolled, posture polite but distant.

His insufferable friend chats with him as he tends to the register, "You know. We should have really taken up Fury's offer on that vacation in Bali. Instead... we're part-time workers. Camping out."

Steve laughs, "Come on now. At least we aren't starving at the trenches or fighting aliens for once. Besides, there must be a reason he assigned us here."

"You don't think..." Sam gasps. "What if the rumors are true?"

Steve cocks an eyebrow, "What rumors?"

"You don't know?" Sam's jaw is now slack. "There's been news that Bucky may be alive. Escaped from a HYDRA facility a few days ago. Slipped away from the mind-control things done to him."

"What—" Steve furrows his brows. "How? That must be fake."

The bell over the door jingles. A wisp of long, layered black hair comes into view, as sunlight and wind illuminates it. A figure steps inside, dressed in a fitted button up, a skirt, and a dark green leather jacket—sharp, unassuming, out of place in a way that feels deliberate. Em. She scans the room like she’s looking for exits she won’t need.

Sam whistles under his breath. “Man… that’s definitely not your buddy.”

Steve glances up. His breath hitches as he feels the world hyperfocus and slow down.

They lock eyes. For half a second, neither moves.

Then Em smiles, warm, disarming, practiced. Praying seventy years don’t come crashing down, tethering herself to the hope that he doesn’t remember her old world war buddy. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

Steve straightens. Just tending to another order of another guest. “No, ma’am. What can I get you?” Completely oblivious. No recollections of the past. Or of her. Seemingly.

Good. He's an idiot. So.. she steps closer, points at the menu, particularly on an image of a baked garlic bread in a pot on the counter. “I’m here about this. I know you don't get this a lot, but... could you perhaps give me the recipe? I just moved in and I need some soul food at home.”

"Of course," He grabs a napkin and writes the recipe down, and he hands it to her, instinctively pulling away as their fingers touch.

“Well,” she says lightly, smiling in familiarity with his expanse of information. Admiring his focus on his meticulous account of ingredients, where to get them, and its alternatives, as well as how to store the bread or even preserve it, “you geeks are good.”

Sam grins. “Captain America, King of Homemade Garlic Bread and Customer Service.”

She tilts her head at Steve. “High praise.”

Steve flushes. Looks away.

Across the room—A child in ballet shoes trembles near the doorway.

Her father leaves her there, as he goes over to the counter, expressing his concern. "Good day, I apologize for the inconvenience but my daughter hasn't been feeling very well. She's been a bit frail and pale. And due to her weak state lately, she's also been kind of drained emotionally. But I don't know what's causing her lethargy."

He pauses and gestures to his phone, clicking it, as it shows a black screen with only battery icon with one red bar, and a description of "Low Battery," underneath. "I was supposed to call an ambulance over, but my phone died and we were already too far away from the ballet ballroom, and there were no telephone boxes around so I just had to resort to here. The nearest joint." He finishes, "That being said, would you mind if I borrow a phone? For the ambulance and her medical attention?"

Steve takes a breath and opens his mouth after assessing the father's deep concern and the child's state. "It appears that she may have lethargic paleness, fragility, and an overall withdrawal from activities she once loved due to hunger. Happens to me all the time when I skip meals or adopt an unhealthy diet such as intermittent fasting."

He pauses and considers if he knows she's being starved or is starving herself. "Would it be possible if she has self-esteem issues and would like to fit the beauty standard of "being slim"? Or perhaps, her instructor may be forcing her to adopt a dangerously unhealthy diet for her age since ballerinas are often expected to have an extremely, intensely slim frame, "to make their dance graceful, seamlessly free-flowing, sharp and soft with synergy at the same time," aparently."

The father stills. Worried and fearful that that may be accurate. "That could be true... I don't get to visit much since she lives with her mother. We are... divorced, so this is my one of the only chances I get to rarely spend time with her. Her ballet recital is tonight. What if she gets hospitalized?" He starts shaking and panicking, his hands flying to tug at his own hair, in self-deprication, self-pity, and blame. "I can't believe I screwed this up. God... her mom's gonna decimate me."

Steve cups his shoulder, "Don't worry. This problem is very simple. And it has a very simple solution. It's a good thing you came across us."

The father widens his eyes with hope. "What is the solution?"

"Whenever a human is hungry, they only do one thing." Steve continues.

The father's knot buried deep in his stomach starts to coil as it feels as if it's waterboarded with a cocktail of anxiety and curiosity is ramped up to the highest blood intoxication level now. "What is it? Please tell me."

The blonde chef looks at him with empathy. "The human just eats. She needs food."

The father gasps. "Oh my god. Why didn't I think of that?" He searches his pockets and his bag. "Oh no. I didn't bring her lunch meal. Or even her afternoon snacks, at least."

Steve explains, "Well. It's a good thing you came to a restaurant. Because we have all the healthy but also mouthwateringly good food here."

He moves away from the counter and crouches immediately. “Hey,” he says softly. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m a bit starved,” the child whispers. “I keep fainting at practice or messing up my steps. But my instructor tells me to maintain a diet.”

Steve leans in. “Wanna know a secret?"

The girl becomes radiant amidst her lethargic paleness, lighting up with curiosity. "I love secrets. Tell me."

Steve chuckles then whispers into the six-year old's ear, "Secret—real ballerinas let themselves eat good sandwhiches.”

The child eats a full meal of a sandwhich and a soup, and smiles. Regains her energy, allowing her to practice her dance recital there. The room applauds.

Em watches, gazing at the scene—not at the kid, nor her dance, but rather, at the charming, dashingly heroic, muscular but XXS-t-shirt-wearing, sweet and perfect and ridiculous blonde stranger.

As she feels an insufferable smile creep up on her and slide into her now fond and radiant features for the star-spangled captain's kindness. In her silence, she can feel and hear his little friend audibly grin at her reaction to his all-out-compassionate buddy.

Her phone buzzes. She answers it, listening to her superior ramble on and on about protocol, she proceeds to give Sam her number and wave goodbye to him and a wistful Steve as she walks out. Soon as she gets in the car after exiting the restaurant, instead of leading with the words, "Mission Report."

All of her superiors are frankly either holding respect for her and recognize her as still their boss, or rather the more common one... scared shitless. So as the combination of Type A and B, and memories of him using torture to correct, train, and punish him as a teen, General Henley doesn't mind when she says, “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I made contact.”

"Listen, Montenaro. Maybe you should sit this one out. Given your history with the soldiers. Just return here and we'll send someone else—" General Henley's voice crackles through but is instantly cut off the moment she hears his doubt.

"Don't worry. I can handle it." She grits out with a shockingly nice tone. But he knows it only serves to ice him out.

She smiles at his abrupt, stunned silence. "Flawlessly. I was the one who founded this damn empire in the first place, right?" She grits out as she hears him sigh. "I don't make mistakes."

He continues, knowing of her past with the Captain, "Just remember—don’t get emotionally contaminated.”

Em’s smile vanishes in disdain as she clutches the wheel. “I won’t. I don’t get emotionally contaiminated.”

She hears him try to remind her about her past records of herself going rogue for the soldier, forces her to say flatly, "Enough," masking her irritation but failing. “I’ll secure the file tonight from him. And I'll find the Asset. Soon.”

She hangs up after gritting the words out.

INT. STEVE’S BROOKLYN APARTMENT — NIGHT

The light snaps on. Steve freezes. The ninja doesn’t flinch, standing dead center in the living room, balanced and unbothered, black‑clad from head to toe and framed by the open window. One hand grips Steve’s computer like it belongs there. Weight forward and distributed like gravity is a suggestion rather than a rule. One hand grips Steve’s computer set, fingers wrapped like it weighs nothing.

Steve still clutches his pizza plate but doesn’t blink. He catalogs, clocks everything in half a second.

Efficient stance: trained.

Foot distance: combat‑ready.

Center of gravity: lower than it should be.

Enhanced. Not hiding—waiting. Beckoning him forward.

["Cobrastyle" by Teddybears and Mad Cobra starts playing]

“Please,” Steve says evenly, calm but edged, palms open, stepping forward slowly. “Put the computer down.”

The ninja tilts their head, amused. “Oh wow,” a voice says from beneath the mask, dry, confident, unmistakably female. “He really does open with polite. Straight to ‘please.’ No shield speech? I’m almost disappointed.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “…Captain America,” he corrects reflexively.

“Oh, gross,” she sighs theatrically. “You introduced yourself.” She takes a step back toward the window.

Steve moves on instinct. He lunges for the computer, not her and she pivots cleanly, his fingers brushing the edge of fabric but catching nothing.

Her elbow snaps out and taps his wrist just hard enough to sting. “Oh no, please stop being a gentleman,” she sighs. “That always makes this worse.” She edges toward the window.

Steve moves. Fast. He lunges, aiming for the computer, not her, and she pivots effortlessly, letting the momentum pass her shoulder. His hand closes on empty air.

She smacks his wrist away. Not hard. Just enough. “Let go of the computer,” she says lightly. “And your ego. Preferably in that order.”

“I’m more attached to my computer,” Steve shoots back, sweeping low for her legs.

She hops clean over the kick, boots brushing his shoulder as she vaults. “God, I’d forgotten how dramatic you are in person.” She lands behind him.

Steve shoots back, swinging low, "I could say the same for your movements."

She hops over the kick with infuriating ease. “It’s called tactical minimalism. You should try it.” She lands behind him.

Steve spins, shield arm up, and eats a heel straight into the ribs, knocking him sideways into the couch. Furniture cracks. He gets pinned down by the couch. He glares at her as she presses her weight harder, and a hand mounts beside his head to the couch's headboard.

From the kitchen, Sam appears mid‑stride, pizza plate in hand. “…I leave for thirty seconds.” He takes a bite of the slice of pizza. “Did I miss something?”

The ninja glances at him as Steve is still under her. “Ah, another idiot. How nice.” She plants two hands beside his head to balance herself.

“Sam,” Steve groans as she rolls her hips to distract him, “call the police.”

“Oh no,” Sam says, eyes wide with delight as the masked woman toys with Steve's waistband. “I’m watching this. But sure, I'll help.”

The ninja ducks as Sam instinctively hurls the pizza. She sidesteps it mid‑air. “Wow,” she says, genuinely impressed. “Cheese and pepperoni. Generous.”

Steve stands up and grabs a bowling trophy off the shelf and hurls it.

She kicks it back. The plastic gold bowler whistles past Steve’s head and punches into the wall.

“Okay,” Steve mutters. He charges.

She throws the computer at his chest.

He catches it reflexively. “Huh—”

Her sweep‑kick slams into his legs. Steve hits the floor, wind knocked clean out of him as he goes horizontal, hitting the floor hard enough to rattle the window frames. The PC set flips upward, end over end, and she catches it.

He plants his feet, squints through the haze. “Okay,” he breathes. “That’s new.” He surges forward again, this time meeting her strike for strike. Their movements blur, Steve’s power meeting her precision. He throws weight; she redirects it. He swings wide; she slips inside his guard and drives a palm into his sternum that knocks the air clean out of him. He crashes into the coffee table. It shatters.

Steve looks up at her, really looks at her now, and something clicks. The way she shifts. The compact center. The muscle distribution. He blinks. Steve charges again, this time full force. He connects. His shoulder drives into her center mass and sends her crashing backward into the bookshelf. Wood splinters.

She grunts, but recovers instantly, twisting out of the fall and rolling to her feet.

Steve freezes. Something clicks. The oddly-pitched voice wasn't just projected spy tech meant for hesitance in combat from the enemy's part. His hand had sunk into muscle, not soft, but compact, coiled, reinforced. Stronger than baseline, just different distribution. He stares. “You’re a woman.”

She blinks. Then laughs. “Yeah?” She plants her feet. “So?”

Sam, still clutching another plate by the counter, adds helpfully, “We don’t hit girls. We’re military. It would be unfair.”

Her unimpressed eyes flick to him. Flat. Deadpan. “I’m military too.” She vaults off the couch, spins, and lands a double kick that sends Steve skidding across the floor like a thrown shield.

He slams into the wall, denting the drywall. Steve barely gets his shield up before a flurry of strikes rains down, fast, precise, exploiting angles rather than power.

Steve groans. “That doesn’t feel unfair.”

“You fought Nazis, Captain." She flashes a grin beneath the mask. "You’ll survive me.”

She doesn’t try to break him. She tries to offset him. She feints left, kicks right.

Steve blocks, counters with a shield strike that should have connected, but she slides under it, using the floor as leverage, sweeping his legs out from under him. He hits the ground hard.

She’s on him instantly, knee pinning his shoulder, fingers poised near pressure points he doesn’t recognize. “Still want to lecture me about protocol, Captain America?”

Steve bucks, rolling his body just enough to dislodge her knee and shove her sideways.

They separate. Heavy breathing. Broken furniture.

"Just who the hell are you?” Steve says through clenched teeth.

“Your worst nightmare.” She charges again.

This time Steve matches her, block for block, strike for strike. He adapts fast to her technique and combat, matching her style, compensating for her lighter frame and faster recovery due to being a fellow Enhanced. He uses reach; she uses rotation.

Sam throws a TV remote.

She ducks again without looking.

“Stop throwing things!” Steve yells.

“Then stop bringing ninjas home!” Sam shouts back.

The ninja flips backward, boots hitting the wall, pushing off into a spinning kick that Steve barely absorbs with the shield.

He charges again. This time he adapts, shorter strikes, tighter angles. He catches her wrist mid‑punch and twists, using reach and leverage instead of raw force.

For half a heartbeat, they lock up. Close. Too close. He can smell her, ozone, rain, vanilla sugarcanes and blackcurrant with a fesity cocktail of adrenaline.

She knees him in the gut. Hard.

Steve doubles over, wheezing, and she flips backward out of his reach.

Sam grabs another kitchenware. A pan. Rapunzel-style.

She glances at it. Sidesteps without breaking stride.

The plate slams into Steve’s shoulder instead.

“For the record,” she calls over her shoulder, “your friend is terrible backup.”

They clash again. The room shakes. Steve grabs her wrist and twists hard, but she lets it happen, using the torque to drive a knee into his gut and break free. She lands, breathing steady, eyes sharp behind the mask.

“And you fight like you expect the floor to agree with you,” she says. “It doesn’t.”

“Well, you fight arrogantly like you’ve already mapped the room.”

“Because I have.” She glances at the open window. Steve follows her gaze too late. She throws the laptop remnants at his chest, not to hurt him, just to stall. Then she leaps, standing upright.

Steve hauls himself upwards as well, breathing hard, face and pride equally battered.

Sam swings the plate.

“NO—!” Steve shouts.

CRACK.

The plate smashes straight into Steve’s face. White. Ringing. Impact. Steve’s head snaps back as ceramic explodes into shards, tomato sauce splattering across his cheek. "Dude!" He hits the floor again, vision briefly swimming. “What the hell was that!” Steve yells, clutching his head. “I had it!”

The ninja smiles unapollogetically. "Emphasis on your accurate and intelligent use of past tense."

“Sorry!” Sam blurts. “Watch out though!”

Steve barely looks up in time.

The ninja is already moving. A fist connects, sharp, precise, clipping his cheekbone.

“Ah,” she says, almost disappointed as she tilts his chin up. The apartment lights casting an illumination on his features. “Shame. You have such perfect cheekbones, though.”

The punch to his cheekbone snaps his head sideways, white ringing flooding his skull as he rolls onto his back. The serum absorbs the blow, but his balance is off, ears ringing hard. The force sends ceramic blaring through his skull, vision tunneling for a split second too long. His bones intact, but stars still dance at the edges of the thin line of his only tether.

“Okaaay,” he groans, blinking. The serum keeps him conscious, but the world tilts, objects lagging half a beat behind reality. “Yep. That’s… that’s a concussion.” He rolls onto his side, trying to push up. Doesn’t quite make it. Tries twice. Fails again.

A dull, spreading pressure that tilts the kung-fu fighting woman at the edges. So, he settles for turning his head just enough to track her movement.

The ninja doesn’t press the advantage or finish him. Instead, she turns, just slightly, toward the kitchen doorway. The masked intruder doesn’t finish him. There’s movement, fast, precise, as the ninja shifts their attention away from Steve entirely. From the kitchen.

Sam Wilson steps fully into the room, eyes wide, one plate still in his hand. He takes in the scene in exactly three seconds: Steve on the floor, drywall cracked, furniture overturned, “Oh hell no,” Sam mutters, pizza abandoned on the counter. “You do not get to knock out Captain America in his own apartment.”

The ninja glances at him. Deadpan. “You throw things and hope for the best, don’t you?”

Sam lifts the ceramic plate in one hand slightly. “Only when I panic. And it’s worked once.” Eyes flicking between Steve on the floor and the black‑clad figure wrestling awkwardly with a full desktop computer setup like it wronged her personally: squat beige CPU tucked under one arm, monitor hugged against their ribs, keyboard swinging uselessly by its cord.

“…Man,” Sam says slowly. “You really regulate your leads the hard way.” A beat passes. “...Steve, this is kind of ninjas you had to attract?” Sam asks, but he is already moving.

The masked woman eyes him, unimpressed. “You going to lecture me too?” she asks. “Or are you more of a ‘throw dishes and hope for the best’ guy?”

Sam grabs the pizza from the carton on the counter. “Don’t worry. I’m excellent under pressure.” He hurls it.

She ducks. The pizza splats sadly with a pathetic sound against the wall inches from her head.

“See?” Sam points. “Area denial.”

The ninja doesn’t capitalize. Instead, the figure adjusts their grip on the entire computer setup, not just a laptop, but the whole thing: a squat beige CPU tower tucked under one arm, unplugged keyboard dangling by its cord, the monitor clutched awkwardly against their side. Heavy. Loud as hell when it shifts.

Sam steps fully into the room, finally registering the hardware, eyes widening. “…I just realized, is that a desktop?”

Steve winces. “Yes.”

Sam blinks. “It 2013. Why do you own—”

“Not now, Sam.”

The masked figure tilts their head, clearly unimpressed. “You’re really attached to this thing, Captain America.”

Steve pushes himself up on one elbow. “You broke into my apartment.”

“You broke into Germany in 1944,” she shoots back. “Perspective.” She shifts her grip on the computer, too much weight, too much bulk, balance forced instead of natural.

Steve notices that, even through the haze. Forgetting how heavy the file he was sent last night and contents were. Just only equipped with the assessments. Heavy hardware. Unwieldy. No tactical reason to steal it. Not precision theft. Not a smash‑and‑grab. Opportunistic intel, his brain supplies. Ex‑agent? Freelancer?

“Hey,” Steve rasps from the floor, palm pressed to his face. “You’re not… please, you don’t have to take that.”

She glances at him. Almost amused. “I’m already committed, Captain America,” she says. “Walking away empty‑handed hurts my brand.”

She pivots toward the window, but the combined weight of the CPU and monitor throws her balance just a fraction off. Not enough to fall, but enough for Sam to move.

“Oh no,” Sam mutters, lunging. “You are not leaving with that.” Sam grabs the keyboard cord and yanks.

The ninja snarls as the tower shifts, forcing them to drop low and brace, foot skidding across the tile. “Let go!” she snaps.

“You first!” He seethes.

She twists sharply, using the CPU’s weight as leverage, and slams the monitor into his forearm.

Steve yelps and releases it. “Jesus—!”

Sam, thinking fast and very much panicking, grabs a ceramic plate from the counter and hurls it.

She dodges effortlessly.

The plate nails Steve square in the face.

CRACK.

Steve collapses backward with a very un‑Captain America‑like sound. “What the hell, man?!” he shouts, clutching his head.

After a successful jab to his left rib, Em smiles, "Don't worry. You look infinitely more attractive when you're bruised, miserable, and bloody. It's like makeup for men."

Steve groans. “Please stop complimenting me while assaulting me.”

She doesn’t stop. "On your left, Cap."

Before the ninja can send another devastating blow to Steve, Sam charges her from the side. They struggle, Sam holding his own surprisingly well, forcing her to backpedal while juggling the computer parts.

She lunges. Their collision is immediate and loud, Sam barely gets his arms up before she slams into him, momentum carrying them across the living room.

He stumbles but stays upright, muscles straining as he absorbs the hit. “Oh, wow,” he pants. “You’re—okay—you’re strong.”

She twists out of his grip and snaps a kick toward his knee. Sam blocks just in time, the impact rattling up his leg. “General. A sniper in the Army,” she deadpans. “You?”

“Air Force,” Sam shoots back. “We specialize in not fighting ninjas indoors.” He ducks as she flips over him, landing in a crouch with the laptop case tucked under one arm again.

On the floor, Steve groans and rolls onto his side. “Sam… don’t let her—”

Too late. Sam lunges, grabbing the laptop bag strap. They struggle, tugging in opposite directions, muscles straining, the case slipping between them.

“You should really let go,” she says calmly, even as Sam yanks. “You’re going to break it.”

“That seems like a you problem!” Sam fires back.

She lunges.

Sam barely has time to regain his strength before she slams into him again, driving him back toward the counter. He grunts but stays upright, planting his feet and shoving back. “Oh wow,” he pants. “God, you're like a tiny vessel of pure muscle, are you?”

"Hah. And you're all jugs!" She twists out of his grip, the bulky CPU slipping against her ribs as she readjusts, balance fighting physics. "Too bad your big frame is all for display."

“Sam, get the computer!” Steve snaps from the floor, clutching his head.

"What do you think I'm doing!" He shoots him a glare. “This is not a laptop, Rogers! Pick better hardware!” Sam grabs the dangling keyboard cord and yanks.

The ninja hisses as the weight shifts unexpectedly, throwing her stance just a hair off.

They grapple, Sam holding on, boots sliding against tile while she tries to keep control of the monitor, CPU, and keyboard all at once. “Seriously,” Sam grunts, straining. “Why do you still own a tower?”

Steve groans. “I like… full keyboards…”

The ninja jerks her arm free, spins, and slams an elbow toward Sam’s shoulder. He blocks, but the impact rattles him.

“Okay,” Sam mutters. “I regret my confidence.”

He lunges again, grabbing the side of the CPU tower.

They pull. The computer shifts. Badly.

“You should really let go,” she says flatly. “This ends poorly.”

“For you,” Sam shoots back. Sam moves fast. He lunges, grabbing the trailing keyboard cord.

The intruder snarls as the CPU shifts suddenly, weight pulling her off balance for the first time. She drops into a wider stance to compensate, boots skidding on hardwood. “Let go,” she snaps.

“Not happening!” Sam grits out, unhappily.

Steve winces as the two struggle, the computer creaking ominously between them.

“Sam,” Steve groans. “Careful—”

Steve watches, helpless for a moment as the two pull back and forth, until the strap snaps. The computer case drops. Time slows. Steve reaches out, one arm lifting instinctively, "No—!"

The computer almost hits the floor, but she catches it.

Then again, Steve sees the opening. He surges forward, ignoring the ringing in his head, shoulders slamming into her side. They crash together into the kitchen counter, the monitor slipping from her grip, and Steve grabs it, hoping to intercept it. Bad idea.

This time, it’s too much.

The strap on the monitor snaps.

Steve’s heart drops. “Oh, God—”

The monitor slips first, crashing onto the hardwood floor with a sharp CRACK, screen caving inward. The keyboard slips. Then finally, the CPU tower drops from her grip, and follows half a second later with a heavy BANG. The hard drive skips once, twice, shudders to a stop, and lands dead.

CRUNCH.

Plastic splintered. The keyboard shattered. The monitor screen spider‑webbed inward. Metal fibers curled like broken ribs. The CPU popped open with a metallic clang, internal components skittered across the floor like shrapnel. Silence.

Everyone freezes.

The masked woman stares down at the wreckage. Her shoulders sag just a hair. Then she exhales, “...Great,” she says flatly. “No one wins.”

Sam exhales. “I mean. We didn’t lose.”

Steve lies on the floor, staring at the ceiling. “That was my entire computer.”

She looks at him. Really looks. “…Yeah,” she says, unimpressed. “That tracks.”

Steve pushes himself up onto one elbow, face tight with pain. “You just destroyed whatever intel you came for.”

“…Yeah, well technically, you did,” she admits. “But that part? Not ideal.” Sirens wail faintly in the distance. Decision made. She backs toward the window, retreat now, mission irreversibly compromised.

Steve stares at the dead computer, jaw tight, with irritation and the creeping sense that something about this intrusion doesn’t line up. He pushes himself to look up at her. “You’re walking away over a box of junk?”

She pauses, framed by night. “Intel’s replaceable,” she says lightly. “Risk isn’t.”

Steve struggles up onto one elbow, blood at the corner of his mouth. “You came here for that something. What is it.”

“I did,” she says cheerfully. “And now it’s abstract art.”

The broken computer lies in ruins across the floor. Beige plastic split wide. The monitor collapsed inward like a broken face. Loose wires and chips scattered outward, the keyboard snapped clean in half.

Steve stares at it from where he’s propped up on one elbow, still dizzy, vision lagging half a beat behind his movements. “…You didn’t need the whole thing,” Steve mutters. “If you were just stealing data, you could've just taken the drive—”

The masked woman pauses. Slowly, she looks back at him. Then she smirks. “You’re right,” she says, impressed despite herself. “You’re one smart cookie, Captain.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Oh no, you don’t—”

She lunges. Fast. She drops low, fingers snatching the exposed hard drive from beneath the couch in one smooth motion, and in the same breath sweeps Sam’s legs out from under him.

Sam yelps as he hits the floor. “I just got these knees insured!”

Steve pushes himself upright, adrenaline punching through the concussion. “Hey!” He grabs her ankle as she pivots toward the window. “Not happening!”

She looks down at his hand, annoyed now.

“Seriously?” She kicks hard, but Steve doesn’t let go, teeth clenched as pain lances through his shoulder. “Let. Go.” Her voice sharpens. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Funny way of showing it!” Steve snarls.

Sam scrambles, reaching for her arm. “Steve, move—!”

She exhales sharply. The patience snaps. Green light flares once, sudden and raw, just a burst of irritated, uncontrolled energy radiating outward like a shockwave. “You guys are really annoying, you know that?”

The blast hits. Steve and Sam are thrown backward simultaneously, lifted off their feet and slammed into opposite walls. The impact rattles the apartment, picture frames crashing down as both of them go completely slack.

Unconscious. Alive.

She stands alone now in the wreckage, chest rising fast, hard drive clutched in hand. Em looks down at the broken computer again. The scattered chips. The ruined casing. Her shoulders sag. She groans, not triumphant, regretful as she pockets the drive, steps over Sam carefully, and steps onto the windowsill.

She plants one foot on the wall and vaults backward through the open window. She vaults cleanly, using the wall and window frame in one smooth motion.

Hours after she fled the scene, Sam stands upright with a groan and a struggle as he peers down. “…So. First impressions?”

Steve grunts. “She stole my computer.”

Sam nods solemnly. “Man. That’s how you know it’s serious.”

EXT. STREETS OF BROOKLYN — CONTINUOUS

She hits the alley running. Rips the mask off mid‑stride, strands of dark hair whipping she ducks into a sleek black car parked too cleanly for the block. The ninja drops on the trunk, dents it, bounces once—and lands cleanly despite the adrenaline still buzzing through her body.

She lands hard, knees flexing, already ripping the mask off after she sprinting to her parked car. Teeth grit. She slams the door of a black Porsche 911 Carrera 4S Cabriolet, and tears the mask away completely.

“Damn it,” she snaps again, sharper now, fist hitting horn hard enough to make it blare once. The cold air hits her face. She punches the wheel, jaw tight, eyes burning. The engine roars. She floors the accelerator.

The Porsche tears away from the curb, disappearing into the night at reckless speed. She speeds away from the curb at recklessly, a man flipping her off in anger due to smoke and taillights blare at him, as she just goes vanishing into the night. The car screams down the street and disappears into the Brooklyn night.

Em exhales sharply, adrenaline buzzing through her veins. “Okay,” she mutters. “Note to self: Captain America is stronger up close.” She fires the engine. Drives. Behind her, sirens begin. She smiles as her hair spills freely in the wind, breathing fast but steady as she picks up speed.

She smirks at herself in the mirror. “Though... minimal to no magic,” she whispers. “A bit seventy years too rusty. But! Still got it.” Em peels away from the cul-de-sac with a sharp, skidding turn.

INT. STEVE’S APARTMENT — MOMENTS LATER

Steve lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving.

"So!" Sam crouches over him. “I take it that... first date went well?”

“Again. She stole my computer.” The Capsicle shoots his buddy a pointed look.

Sam nods sagely. “That’s how you know she likes you.”

Steve lies back on the floor, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling slowly now.

Sam nudges the shattered laptop with his foot. “So. You want the good news or the bad news?”

“Define… good.” Steve winces at a rib injury.

Sam shrugs. “She didn’t kill us.”

“…Figures.” Steve closes his eyes. "Bare minimum, man."

Somewhere deep in his chest, past the concussion, past the irritation, curiosity sparks.

Sam nudges the dead computer with his foot. “…You know,” he says carefully, “for a ninja trained in the military as a sniper General and in fighting a super soldier and another regular retired soldier, she really struggled with ‘fragile equipment.’”

“She could’ve finished us.” Steve exhales slowly with the energy he has left.

Sam nods. “But she didn’t.”

Steve closes his eyes. He lies back against the floor, staring at the ceiling, chest rising slowly as the dizziness eases just enough to think again.

"Well." Sam nudges the destroyed computer with his foot. “Good news,” he says carefully, “the bright side is… we finally get day off tomorrow."

"After all that–" Steve closes his eyes as he clutches his back. “…We should push for a month off,” he says quietly.

The self-proclaimed regular-sized, retired and deeply tired soldier agrees with his buddy as dryly laughs and nods. “Yeah.”

Steve lies back against the floor, breathing slow and measured now, concussion easing just enough to think.

Sam nudges the pile of plastic and metal debris with his foot. “So,” he says carefully, “random ninja robber or weirdly personal ex‑agent?”

Steve stares at the ceiling, mind already replaying the fight. The restraint. The choice not to finish him. The irritation, real, human, when the computer broke. “…Ex‑agent,” Steve says finally. “Or someone who used to be.”

Sam nods. “Yeah. I got that vibe.” A beat passes, "Is it wrong that I found her attractive?"

Steve shakes his head as he laughs despite himself, "I mean, if you get turned on by a girl kicking your ass. Sure."

"It's definitely that. Love a woman who can dominate," Sam agrees, grinning at the audible facepalm of his pissed and bruised buddy on the ground. Diva down.

"You are deeply disturbed." Steve sighs.

summary: History says HYDRA’s founder burned in World War II. History is wrong. Seventy years later, as old lies crawl back into daylight, Steve Rogers is dragged into a covert war built on weaponized trust, buried truths, and an infuriatingly familiar ally who knows HYDRA from the inside out. Espionage tightens. Loyalties fracture. The past bleeds forward—while Project Insight waits, already compromised. Already hers. pairings: James “Bucky” Barnes × Rogue!HYDRA Founder!Reader/OC; Steve Rogers × Rogue!HYDRA Founder!Reader/OC; No use of Y/N (woohoo!!) word count: 20-chapter draft kinda-sorta reached 57k (insane? I KNOW. shoot me) warnings/tags: Violence (graphic & non‑graphic), genocide and mass death references, war crimes, imprisonment, torture (physical & psychological), mind control, coercion, execution, abuse by authority figures, religious & cosmic trauma, time/reality manipulation, moral injury, ethically compromised protagonists. Not a romanticized portrayal of violence. Reader discretion advised. Notes from the Mad Poet: Em—Emily Elise Montenaro—wasn’t recruited into HYDRA. She built it. This is a story about ownership, consequence, and surviving the thing you created instead of pretending it wasn’t yours. About pressure, systems, outcomes. About learning where the universe breaks—and standing there anyway. She doesn’t believe in destiny or clean hands. Eventually, she gave in to her mother’s lessons—about incursions, and ash. As for her father, well... dear old dad liked to call himself inevitable. He taught her a few tricks on how to make that stick. So, you could say time had its own devious mischief, and she learned how to stop fighting him bleeding into her stride. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆ ˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . Written and brought to you by: malalanalala on AO3, IG, Tumblr (@The Mad Poet’s Diary on Tumblr) — 3000x of love for you guys, and your endless support; wishing for yours too in reading this first fic in a long line of the "Incursions — Avengers: Reimagined" fanfic series. Masterlist coming soon! As TWS chapters are already locked and loaded. Will be taking all the stupid with me, For all time, and always, Lala Donal.

PROLOGUE: Teaser from “Captain America: The First Avenger”

INT. CELL OF AN UNDERGROUND HYDRA BUNKER – 1940 AT CASTLE KAUFMANN IN THE BAVARIAN ALPS

The hum never stops.

It isn’t loud—HYDRA never relied on noise when pressure worked better—but it’s constant, threaded through the bones of the concrete and the steel stitched into it. A vibration you feel in your teeth before you notice it in your ears. A reminder that something larger than you is awake and watching.

She sits perfectly still.

The chair is bolted to the floor. The cuffs are symbolic, a testament to her weaknesses; they are layered poison within metal, composite alloys forged after a long series of embarrassing failures at recreating her version of Kryptonite. Which can only be found back at her citadel at Yggdrasil. By the tower and lake where she drowned in her guilt as a method of control.

They encircle her wrists with clinical precision, tight enough to discourage hope, to remind her of her roots. The lives she reduced to ashes. The blood in her ledger. But lloose enough to prevent bruising that would complicate reports. Cold. Heavy. Patient.

The room is circular. No corners. No doors visible. Light bleeds from recessed panels overhead, white and sterile, calibrated to simulate day without warmth. One wall curves into reinforced observation glass, thick enough to distort shapes beyond it, tinted so the silhouettes on the other side never quite look human.

She knows every detail without turning her head.

Behind the glass, voices murmur—low, controlled, professional. Men and women who believe distance is insulation. Who think glass and titles will outlast consequences.

“She’s awake,” someone says.

“Vitals?”

“Stable.”

“She done anything?”

She lowers her gaze to the floor instead of answering out loud. The metal there bears the faint scoring of previous occupants—scars people leave when they believe restraint might care if they struggle.

“No,” another voice replies.

Relief ripples through the observation chamber, subtle but unmistakable. Someone shifts weight. Another exhales. The tension loosens its grip just enough.

Her gaze lingers for a fraction longer than it should—on the crooked angle of the camera, the way the image blooms and blurs under smoke interference, the faint static crawling along the screen’s edge.

That’s when she does it.

Not with a gesture. Not with a glow. Just a subtle shift—like pressure redistributing behind her ear. The air there tightens, almost imperceptibly, as if reality has been pinched between two fingers and coaxed into cooperation.

Something threads itself into place beneath skin and bone, cool and precise, conforming perfectly to anatomy that no longer bothers distinguishing between organic and constructed. No circuitry hums. No frequency spikes. To an external scanner, there is nothing—no implant, no foreign device, no energy signature worth flagging.

She’d made it earlier. Quietly. Out of habit. A contingency folded from intent and memory, not hardware.

The comm settles with a faint internal click—felt, not heard—locking into a band so narrow and personal it might as well be a thought. She doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t test it.

She already knows it works.

Behind the glass, the guards are too focused on her hands, her posture, the cuffs that haven’t melted yet. They watch restraint like it’s the only language power speaks.

They never look at her ear.

They always make that mistake.

Rule number 1: Never underestimate the person who taught you everything you know.

Rule number 2, and this is key: Never bite the hand that fed you.

Her fingers flex once. The cuffs immediately respond—a soft loosening from her internal click, not fully off, but just enough to allow her to materialize something useful without giving herself away, a red indicator blooming to life on the inner rim. Warning. Not yet punishment. HYDRA loves escalation. It gives people the illusion of choice.

Her ear warms—not from heat, but from presence.

The comm comes alive without sound, a pressure behind bone that resolves into clarity. When the informant speaks, it’s the tone of someone doing what they’ve done a thousand times before: precise, controlled, briefing‑room calm.

“Primary exit route is still viable,” the voice murmurs. “Service corridor C‑9 leads to the decommissioned freight lift. Thirty seconds of exposure, minimal patrol density. I’ve rerouted the cameras for a ninety‑second blind window.”

Em keeps her eyes on the blurred CCTV image, posture relaxed, breath measured. She listens.

“Secondary route is the waste filtration shaft. Messier, but safe. Your people are in place—Janus team at the east junction, two operatives topside in civilian cover. They’re ready to move on your signal.”

A pause. The sound of keys clacking. Systems updating.

“Redundant fallback is still the sublevel tunnel. Old HYDRA construction, pre‑modern schematics. No one uses it anymore. That was your directive.” A beat, faint admiration threading through the words. “You trained us well.”

Her mouth quirks almost imperceptibly.

Then the cadence changes.

There’s a thud in the background—dull, heavy, wrong. Not an alarm. A collision.

“—Wait,” the informant says.

Another sound cuts through: glass shattering. Not cracking. Exploding. Voices rise on the other end of the line. Not professional now. Sharp. Alarmed.

“No, no—that wasn’t scheduled,” the informant mutters, fingers moving faster, breath hitching just slightly. “Two enhanced signatures just entered the lower level. I’m pulling visual—”

Static spikes.

Then, clearer, closer: shouting. German, clipped and furious. A familiar voice barking orders that no longer hold authority the way they once did.

Em’s focus sharpens.

Red Skull.

The informant’s breathing goes audible. “They’re—Christ—they’re super soldiers. Not on the roster. One of them just broke through the security door like it wasn’t reinforced.” A sharp inhale. “They’re fighting him.”

Something crashes. Metal screams as it buckles.

“Oh God,” the informant whispers. Panic bleeds through now, stripping the polish clean. “He’s grabbing the throat—no—no, that’s a mistake—”

A roar cuts across the comm, raw and inhuman, followed by the unmistakable sound of flesh meeting steel. A body hits something hard enough to dent it. Another crash follows, then—

Fire.

Not controlled ignition. Not systems failure.

Fire born from violence.

“Everything’s escalating,” the informant gasps. “Power conduits breached. Suppression’s not responding—there’s too much heat, too fast. They’re tearing through the corridor—”

A scream is cut short mid‑sound.

She stills her hands again.

The warning light fades. Minutes pass. Or half an hour. Or nothing measurable at all. Time behaves differently underground. Memory piles up in layers instead of lines.

She lets her awareness extend—not toward the people watching her, but sideways. Perpendicular to the cell, tucked just beyond the curve of the wall, is a security office. It is not meant to be seen from here. But the smoke—soot, not fire—has begun to seep through ventilation seams as systems elsewhere fail. Gray haze laceworks the air beyond the glass, smudging edges, blurring outlines.

Through that haze, a screen flickers.

It is old tech by HYDRA standards, a concession to redundancy rather than luxury. The image jitters, slightly swollen by heat and interference. Shapes crawl across it like figures glimpsed underwater.

Her gaze sharpens.

There—on the screen.

A ledge. High. Narrow. Too exposed.

A figure stands there, unsteady, backlit by industrial lighting blown partially dark. Even distorted, even blurred by smoke and distance, she recognizes the posture immediately. The squared shoulders held together by stubbornness more than balance. The way he leans forward slightly, as if gravity is something he negotiates with rather than accepts.

Steve.

Soot floods the feed as cameras fail one by one, the image dissolving into dancing gray and black. The informant coughs hard, breath ragged now. “The lower levels are going to burn. I can’t hold the blind window—”

Her breath catches before she can stop it.

The image judders as something detonates lower in the structure. The ledge shudders. Steve stumbles—one foot skidding dangerously close to nothing.

No.

She shifts without meaning to, power flaring in her palms in a reflex honed across epochs. The doors, separating Steve and who she hoped was Bucky on the other side, warm instantly in response, metal singing softly as it absorbs the first whisper of heat. Not yet. Not yet.

Her heart stutters once. Then again.

The feed in Em’s peripheral vision shows the ledge again. Steve unsteady, smoke curling around him.

And then, resolve hardens.

What’s another betrayal anyway? She already went rogue for him. Killed all HYDRA’s closest allies for him.

As if on impulse, no further instruction or addition of panicked will, her green tendrils reach the floor her comrade was on, wrapping around the structure separating them, collapse the door into itself, allowing...

Movement. Glass explodes outward on the screen. A wisp of brown hair erupts from the left, bursting through, stepping on remnants of a glass-metal door in a spray of shards that glitter briefly even through soot and interference.

The second body crashes fully into the frame, all momentum and muscle and unrestrained fury. The boyish face now painted with a pain contortion catches the light even through distortion, unmistakable.

Bucky Barnes.

Bigger. Faster. All panic and adrenaline. The camera catches only fragments—a hand slamming into view, colliding with Steve’s outstretched palm, holding onto it.

Then another hand. Catching. Anchoring. Pulling him up to him.

As he lifts his friend, he slams into a Steve who had just recklessly jumped over the space separating them, not gently, not carefully—effectively—hauling him away from the edge as the structure gives another violent shudder. The ledge vanishes from view as the camera tilts, then flickers.

The sergeant who she once taught to be a good shot, or at least tried to, drags Steve back from the edge with brute, desperate force, glass crunching under boots as he throws his body between Steve and the void. The ledge disappears from view as the camera shakes, reframing on empty air where Steve almost was.

Alive.

Both of them.

Relief floods her so fast it almost makes her dizzy.

She closes her eyes for half a second and exhales, slow and steady, forcing control back down her spine. Steve is alive. Shaken, yes—but breathing. Standing. Being hauled bodily away from the edge by the man she trusted with him long before Steve ever knew her name.

Em exhales, slow and controlled, the tension she hadn’t acknowledged loosening across her shoulders.

A whisper curls in her ear. Not carried by speakers. Not picked up by the room’s sensors. Private.

“Asset secure,” the informant murmurs, voice threaded with static and awe. The last loyal strand still woven into HYDRA’s decaying web. “Barnes extracted him. Captain Rogers is alive.”

Em’s lips curve—not into a smile, but something close.

She answers without moving her mouth, the comm she materialized earlier vibrating invisibly against bone. Undetected. Untouchable.

Into the comm, she murmurs, calm cutting clean through the chaos, “That’s enough.”

There’s relief on the other end of the line—barely contained, shaking. “Captain Rogers is clear, he is en route to exit, though.. he is hesitating,” the informant says.

She watches the monitor. Dark brown eyes meeting his ocean storm blue, as he looked up at the camera. “I know,” Em replies softly. A beat.

“Barnes got him out. But the fire—it’s spreading fast. I don’t think anyone’s walking away from the lower levels.”

“Good,” she breathes. “Then we’re on schedule.”

Then, with finality, “Burn the routes. Pull our people back. Nothing ties to me. Nothing.”

“Yes—” the informant starts, then hesitates. “What do I tell them?”

Her gaze lifts from the dead CCTV feed to the breaking glass in front of her, the first tongues of flame visible now beyond the doorway.

“Tell them,” she says, voice perfectly even, “to send him my regards.”

Then, quieter, threaded with unmistakable relief—

“And my gratitude.”

She almost cuts the line.

A pause. “You’re about to—”

“Yep. Never show my face again.”

The informant swallows audibly. “Do you want his body retrieved? Your protege? Red Skull?”

Her eyes open.

Through the glass, the observers have noticed the change. Someone leans closer, voice sharpening. “What’s she looking at?”

Em doesn’t grant them the courtesy of a glance. “No,” she murmurs into the comm. “Let history believe what it needs to.”

She cuts the channel.

The heat in her hands builds—not violently, not spectacularly, but with intent. Control before power. Precision over waste. The cuffs hum in protest as molecular bonds loosen, metal softening under her touch like candle wax yielding to flame. They do not shatter. They fail.

Molten alloy drips to the floor in slow, deliberate drops.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Behind the glass, someone shouts.

The security office CCTV flickers once more before going dark entirely—last image burned in her mind: Steve upright, breathing, pulled out of danger by the man he trusts with his life.

She rises smoothly as the cuffs collapse away, standing just as alarms escalate from murmur to scream.

Glass fractures. Fire does not rush in—smoke does first, thick and choking, carried on sudden pressure shifts as systems cascade. Footsteps pound. Orders overlap.

She steps closer to the shattered observation window.

“Send him a postcard,” she says calmly, voice slicing through the chaos with surgical clarity. “I am thankful to serve beside him for the greater good for once. And... thankful for other things too.”

Then, softer—only for herself, and for the memory now safely seared into her mind—

“For finding him when I couldn’t.”

Flames answer anyway.

The door gives way not because she forces it, but because it stops existing as a concept the moment she decides to leave.

By the time the lower levels are breached, there will be nothing here but wreckage and conclusions drawn too quickly. No body. No proof. Just fire damage and reports written by people who don’t know how to read absence correctly.

They will say she died in the collapse.

That General Elise Montanegro perished while after Red Skull's kidnapping and HYDRA's hold.

They will believe it.

And somewhere above ground, a soldier will mourn a woman he thinks was lost to fire—unaware that she watched him survive through blurred glass and smoke, chose not to intervene, and stepped into the dark knowing she would see him again.

But not as simply as before.

EXT. PRAGUE - TRAIN STATION — DAY — August 12, 2012

Just a few short days after May 4, 2012, The Battle of New York.

The film immediately cuts to and opens with Em running alongside with Steve. They are on assignment in Prague. A train station. The platform buckles. It isn’t an explosion, it's worse. Steel groans and folds inward as if the building itself has been picked up and wrung. Somewhere down the station, a commuter train shrieks as it derails halfway off the tracks, sparks shearing the air like thrown blades, people are screaming, and lights pop overhead.

Steve sees it in a heartbeat before everyone else does.

The Enhanced stands at the far end of the station, hands lifted, eyes glowing with unstable energy that warps everything around it, the air rippling, gravity stuttering like it can’t decide which way is down. Concrete peels upward in slabs as railings twist.

Steve doesn’t think. He grabs Em’s hand.

“What are you doing—?”

“MOVE!” he roars, already turning, already pulling.

They run. Full blown, run for your fucking life, full-throttle sprint through chaos as the station comes apart behind them. Steve barrels forward, shield up, dragging her along with him.

Em stumbles once, then finds the rhythm, boots striking sparks from fractured tile. “Could’ve been less rude about it!” she yells over the noise.

“Do you have no sense of urgency?” Steve shouts back without slowing.

“Oh, I do,” she snaps, keeping pace effortlessly now. “I just prefer context with my impending doom!”

A chunk of ceiling crashes where they were half a second ago.

Steve doesn’t look back. “You are SO INSUFFERABLE.”

She laughs, actually laughs, breathless but sharp. Then drops her sarcastic smile when she shoots him a pointed look, “Deal with it.”

Behind them, the slimy blob of the Enhanced roars.

Steve pushes harder, muscles burning, lungs screaming with effort even super‑soldiers feel when limits are tested, and he screams in annoyance as Em laughs, running beside him.

She shouts, "Weak!"

The moment fades away to black as Em speaks up, "Oh, hi there! Most of you may be wondering who I am. And how I ended up here."

[THE MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE INTRO STARTS PLAYING AS STAN LEE'S COMICS FLASH INTO VIEW, WHILE "GYPSY—LIVE FROM THE DANCE" BY FLEETWOOD MAC RINGS OUT]

Impersonating a narrator, Em transitions into a playfully deep voice pretending to be a mysterious third party, "She was a non-active founder of criminal organization HYDRA and operated as the Handler of the Winter Soldier. Oh, and she is a fairly precarious witch with a knack for meddling into matters and making forevers last."

[CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER TITLE CARD APPEARS]

Chapters: 2/20 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel 616, Captain America (Chris Evans Movies), Winter Soldier (Marvel Comics) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s)/Reader, Steven Grant/Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers & Reader Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes, Original Female Character(s), Hydra Agents (Marvel), Sam Wilson (Marvel), Nick Fury, Maria Hill, Emily Elise Montenaro aka Em Additional Tags: Canon Divergence - Movie: Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Espionage, Covert Operation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Political Intrigue, Moral Ambiguity, Found Family, Presumed Dead, Missing in Action, Slow Burn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Long Chapters, Long-Term Relationship(s), Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Canon-Typical Violence, No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert, Female Reader-Insert, Reader-Insert Needs a Hug, She/Her Pronouns for Reader-Insert, Witch Reader-Insert, Avenger Reader (Marvel), Post-Movie: Captain America: The First Avenger (2011), Action/Adventure, Action & Romance, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Rivals to Lovers, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, SHIELD Agent Reader (Marvel), Undercover, Assassin Reader-Insert, Criminal Masterminds, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Agent Reader (Marvel), Reader-Insert is a Brat, My First Fanfic, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Past Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, Psychological Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Crimes & Criminals, Partners in Crime, Post-World War II Summary:

History says HYDRA’s founder was lost in fire during the Second World War.

History is very good at mistaking absence for death.

Seventy years later—after New York falls from the sky and the dust finally settles, the world does not, in fact, return to normal. Funny how that works.

This is a canon‑divergent reimagining of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, following Em, after being lost alongside Bucky Barnes in their valiant service to the country, and their unseen long shadow of survival, secrecy, and power.

As covert wars escalate and old lies start clawing their way back into daylight, Steve Rogers finds himself pulled into a conflict built on compartmentalized truths, weaponized trust, and an infuriatingly familiar ally who understands HYDRA far better than anyone should.

“You fought Nazis, Captain. You’ll survive me.”

“Just who the hell are you?”

“Your worst nightmare.”

Espionage tightens. Loyalties fracture. The fight for freedom gets personal, ugly, and deeply inconvenient.

And somewhere beneath it all—unseen by Steve, unchallenged by Fury—Project Insight waits.

Already compromised. Already aimed.

Straight at him.