Incursions β Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2013 β Reimagined)
chapter summary: Berlin is supposed to be a clean infiltration. Somewhere between surveillance, sabotage, and an engine that shouldnβt 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 donβt 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 β DAY β August 12, 2012
["Gypsy" by Fleetwood Mac continues playing after being paused by the fading out song, βCobrastyle by Teddybears and Mad Cobraβ]
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 midβstride, 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 doesnβt 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. ββ¦It shouldβve followed us by now.β
Em leans against the column beside him, catching her breath, too casual. βMm. Probably reconsidered its life choices.β
He sideβeyes her. βThat doesnβt make sense.β Another beat passes. Steveβs brow furrows. βWait. It feels like itβs been down for a while now.β He turns fully toward her. βDid you justβwere you messing with me?β
She straightens, grin blooming uncontrolled now. βYeah.β
Steve stares. βYou what?β
She gestures vaguely back the way they ran. βIt knocked itself out by that pillar over there. I mean, better for us right? We needed time to plan. You wereβ¦ very entertaining though.β
He blinks once. Twice. Then realization dawns. ββ¦You let me think we were about to die.β
βOh totally,β she says cheerfully. βAlsoββ she tilts her head, assessing him like a sculptor judging marble, βthat suit is really not it for you.β
His jaw tightens. βExcuse me?β
βWhen you run,β she continues, utterly unbothered, βyour ass just kindaβ¦ sticks out.β
Silence ushers over them as somewhere behind them, emergency sirens wail.
Steve drags a hand down his face. βYou didn't tell me about a development in a highβrisk engagement so you could critique my physique.β
βBut donβt worry!β she adds quickly, waving a hand. βItβs like... how do they say it?β She snaps her fingers. βAmericaβs ass.β
Steve exhales a long, defeated breath. ββ¦Yeah. That should be my Tinder bio.β
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 Emβs smile softens, just barely, as she watches him.
MAY 8, 2012 β S.H.I.E.L.D. HELICARRIER β FLASHBACK
Steve doesnβt like the room the moment he enters it.
Itβs too quiet and clean. The kind of quiet that isnβt 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. βYou called?β Steve asks.
Fury doesnβt answer immediately. Instead, he gestures toward the shadowed corner of the room. βIβve got someone I want you to meet.β
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 thatβs 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 sheβs inventorying him, not impressed.
βThis is Special Consultant Emily Montanegro,β Fury says evenly. βTransferred under Joint Strategic Oversight from... letβs call it external channels.β
Steveβs jaw tightens at the phrasing.
Em doesnβt offer a hand. Doesnβt salute. She inclines her head just enough to be polite and no more. βCaptain Rogers,β she says. Her voice is calm. Neutral. Measured like a weapon placed gently on a table. βIβve read your file.β
Steve bristles. βHave you.β
βExtensively.β
Thatβs the first strike.
Fury continues, unfazed. βAgent Montanegro here specializes in counterβespionage, behavioral prediction, neural reprogramming recovery, patternβbased threat neutralization, and infiltration.β A pause. βSheβs good.β
βGood at what?β Steve asks sharply. βYou just listed half the things Iβm trying to stop.β
Emβs mouth curves, but it's not quite a smile. βIβm good at making monsters predictable.β
Steveβs eyes narrow, βThat doesnβt make them ethical.β
βNo,β she agrees without hesitation. βIt makes them manageable.β
That earns her his full, cold attention.
Fury interjects before it can escalate. βEmily ran successful ops against three organizations you didnβt know existed. Zero civilian casualties. Minimal collateral.β
Steve doesnβt look away from her. βAnyone can reduce collateral when theyβre not accountable.β
Finally, she meets his gaze directly. Up close, her eyes are unsettling. Just old. Observant in a way that feels invasive. βYouβre worried I donβt play by the rules,β she says.
βIβm worried you write them when itβs convenient.β
That does it. Something sharp flickers across her face, annoyance, displaced rather than hidden. βYou confuse morality with rigidity,β she replies coolly. βTheyβre not the same thing.β
βAnd you confuse efficiency with righteousness.β
Fury sighs. βJesus Christ, itβs been six minutes.β
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. βYou didnβt tell me he was this sanctimonious.β
Steve scoffs at her and turns toward Fury too like a petty, precarious child. βYou didnβt tell me you were this comfortable working in the gray.β
βThe gray is where things get done,β she snaps back. βBlack and white is for history books and funerals.β
The silence that follows is taut enough to snap. Fury watches them both for a beat, expression unreadable. Then, βYouβre going to be working together.β
βWhat?β Steve says immediately.
βOh God no,β Em says at the same time.
Fury smiles thinly. βCongrats to you both.β
Steve folds his arms. βAbsolutely not. Iβm not taking orders from someone who wonβt even use a real name.β
Her eyes sharpen instantly. βExcuse me?β
βYou heard me,β he says. βFake name. Vague credentials. No chain of command. You want me to trust that?β
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. βYou want the truth, Captain?β she says softly. βYouβre a symbol trying to survive in a world that outpaced you. Iβm here to make sure it doesnβt kill anyone else in the process.β
His voice drops. βAnd who makes sure you donβt?β
A beat. Fury answers for her. βI do.β
Steve looks between them, jaw clenched. βThatβs not good enough.β
Em laughs quietly, humorless. βYou think I care?β She meets his stare, unblinking. βI donβt need your approval. I just need you predictable.β
βThatβs not going to happen.β
Her smile sharpens just a degree. βWeβll see.β
Fury claps his hands once, ending it. βGreat. Orientationβs over. Wheelhouse up in twenty.β
Steve turns on his heel without another word.
Behind him, Em watches him goβexpression unreadable, irritation simmering beneath disciplined calm. βCharming,β she mutters. "Shame the serum couldn't tame the star-spangled hypocrisy."
Fury glances at her. βYou hate him already.β
βI donβt hate him,β she replies coolly. βI just donβt trust men who think being good makes them immune to being wrong. Oh, and also, I do hate him.β
Fury nods once. βHeβll grow on you.β
She snorts. βDoubtful.β 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 β ENTRY: MAY 11, 2012 β BERLIN
The ballroom doesnβt shimmerβit 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. Itβs 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 doesnβt 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. Itβs the same instinct that kicked in on battlefields, on broken bridges, on carrier decks full of smoke and shoutingβ
Threat present. Not detonated yet. It leaks insteadβthrough laughter a little too loud, through conversations that donβt 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 fitsβbecause it does. Of course it does. Not physicallyβStark 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 doesnβt belong to him.
It fits like a second skin, sharp down the chestβbut 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. βStop scanning like youβre about to arrest everyone, including the hors dβoeuvres,β She murmurs beside him, not even looking at him.
"Well. At least I don't snack one shrimp per minute." He doesnβt turn. βIβm assessing the room.β
βYouβre broadcasting a threat posture in a room full of people who sell threats for a living,β 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, βBlend, Captain.β
His gaze drifts to her figure and findsβ¦
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 donβt slow her down at all as she moves through the room like it was built to accommodate her stride.
βStop scanning,β she murmurs, barely moving her lips.
Steve doesnβt look at her. βIβm not scanning.β
βYou are,β Em replies. βYouβre doing it like youβre about to tackle someone over the shrimp appetizers.β
Steveβs jaw tightens. βIβmβ¦ prepping.β
Em humsβsoft, unimpressedβand plucks yet another glass from a passing tray without breaking stride. Doesnβt drink it right away. Just lets it sit in her hand like a prop she forgot she picked up. βYouβre staring then,β she adds.
He interjects, βI am notββ
βYouβre a six-foot-two-should-be-a-flagpole man in a tux glaring at people who own private militaries,β she cuts in, voice still perfectly pleasant. βYes. You are.β
He exhales. Slow. For control.
βBreathe, Steven.β She says lightly.
He tries. God, he tries. But theyβre 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 perfumeβsubtle until you step too close and realize itβs suffocating. And theyβre 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 themβand failing. βYou take the west side,β Steve calls. βIβll take center.β
Em, on the other hand, doesnβt blend. She redefines the room. Deliberately.
Everything about her is deliberate.
Her dress catches the lightβslit 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 shouldnβt work. It does. People notice her. But she blends. Like sheβs spent a long time being one of the bad guys here.
βNo.β Em runs beside him effortlessly, stride long and economical, heels striking concrete with an irritatingly confident cadence. She cuts in, already adjusting course. βYouβll take center mass.β Doesnβt even look at him as she corrects smoothly. βTheyβre watching reaction patterns, not perimeter breaches.β
He shoots her a look.
βIβm not assuming,β she reads him like a book, speaking before he starts again, tone still almost bored. βYou read the playbook. I wrote it.β
He falters. Just slightly. That stops him for half a step.
βYouβre staring again,β she says, still not looking at him.
Thatβs all it takes. βIβm notββ
Now she does glance, just briefly, and thereβs something dangerously amused in it. βLook, if you keep doing that, someoneβs going to realize you donβt belong here.β
βWhat if theyβre just right on the money?β he mutters as he steals her champagne and sipd on it.
Her lip twitches and shoots him a pointed stare. βThen at least pretend you belong to me.β
Before he can process that, her hand slides into his arm. Possessively.
It sends a visible jolt through him. His posture shiftsβnot away, but rigid, like heβs recalculating balance under unexpected weight. Thereβs a faint, undeniable flush creeping up the back of his neck.
She feels it immediately. Of course she does.
His jaw tightens. βHey-β
βShh. Relax,β Em whispers, tightening her fingersβjust slightly. βCouples draw less suspicion.β
His eyes flick toward her hand. Still on him. Still anchored like she intends it to stay there. βSeriously?β he mutters under his breath.
βDead serious.β Then, softer, sharper. βAnd if you pull away right now, every person within fifty feet is going to notice.β
He doesnβt pull away. But his expression hardens, as if he can will the discomfort into something operational. βFine,β he says. βBut we stick to the objective.β
βAlways do,β she replies.
He looks at her then. Really looks. Thereβs 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. βNot a single point,β she says. Her gaze driftsβselecting. Eyes flicking and tracking behavior. βThis isnβt a hit. Itβs a test.β
βA test instead of a clear target?β Steve frowns. βFor what.β
βFor us.β
And thatβs when Em moves closer. Close enough that the room, for half a second, doesnβt exist. Close enough that her shoulder brushes his chest. Not subtle or cautious. And definitely not Espionage: Escape Detection 101.
Itβs unexpected.
βEven if theyβre bad guys,β she whispers, adjusting his collar like sheβs fixing a detail that actually matters. βPDA makes people uncomfortable.β
Steve goes rigid. Instantly. βI thought I told you to stick to the objectiveββ
βYes,β she agrees easily. βI am.β
ββ¦what are you doing then?β Steve mutters as he goes completely still.
βIf youβd stop announcing your discomfort and narrating everything you feel,β Em replies, soft and cutting at the same time, βthis would look more convincing.β
Her fingers slip behind his ear, cool and precise.
He inhales sharply, instinctively pulling backβbut her hand catches his jaw for half a second, steadying him, thumb grazing just enough to look intentional from the outside.
βDonβt,β she says quietly. The word doesnβt rise above the music. But it lands. βIβm fixing it. Your dumbass accidentally turned it off.β
A green light kind of sound. A tiny pressβ
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 thereβhidden gesture, strategic angle. Covers the comm.
Anyone watching sees intimacy. Closeness. From inside, itβs tactical control.
βWas that necessary?β Steve mutters, voice tight. His ears are burning now. He knows they are. He hates that she knows it too.
βYes.β Her lips curve. Almost smiling. Barely.
βWell,β he mutters, voice tight, βwouldβve been nice to warn me about.β
βYou wouldβve overreacted.β
He exhales sharply through his nose, forcing control back into his posture. βI didnβt overreact.β
She adjusts her grip on his arm, just slightly. βYou flinched.β
βI adjusted.β
She hums softly. βMm. Very convincingly.β
He shoves the giggling butterflies down, but the flush climbs anyway. Hot. Subtle. Controlled badly.
She notices. Yet again. βYouβre blushing,β She pulls back just enough to look at him again. βYou absolutely are, so stop it. You look inexperienced.β
βIβm adjustingββ Steve exhales sharply through his nose, βIβm not used to this.β
She smiles faintly. βThat is painfully obvious.β
He forces his posture back into something resembling control. βFocus.β
βAlready am.β
Steve just glares at her as she continues her relentless wrapping of arms around his. So noncommittal. And soβ¦. infuriating.
For a split second, something shifts. Her signature assessment and calculation contorts along with something quieter beneath it. Something new. Then itβs gone.
Her gaze flicks across the room again. Slow and measured. βThree watchers,β she says suddenly, tone shifting back to business as if the last thirty seconds didnβt happen at all. βOne A.I.M. Balcony. As for the two othersβ¦ well, this will be fun.β
Steve follows her line of sight, subtle but direct. Sees nothing.
She smiles as Steve frowns. βHYDRA. Donor table. West wallβpretending to care about abstract art.β
ββ¦I donβt seeββ
βOf course you donβt,β she says. βThatβs the point. Theyβre not here to be seen.β
βTheyβre not guarding anything.β she continues. βTheyβre observing interaction points. Entry behaviors. Exit timing.β
βTesting,β he interprets. βTheyβre measuring tension. Watching who clocks disruptions.β
βExactly.β Em contemplates. βThe question isβ¦ what are they looking for?β
Steve pauses. Just for a fraction of a second. Then quietly, βSomeone who doesnβt belong.β
Em exhales, low and dry.
βWell,β Steve mutters, βweβre doing great so far.β
βRelax,β she says again, quieter this time. And for onceβit doesnβt sound like a command. βWeβre not the only ones playing this game tonight,β she adds.
Steve cocks a brow. His gaze flicks from the crowd towards invisible lines threading through the room. To exits and balconies. βWeβre not the only ones infiltrating tonight, are we?β
Em tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. Tracking patterns. Movement. Tempo. βA.I.M. doesnβt host open variables,β she says. βIf this is a test, then they already know someoneβs inside. Especially since HYDRA's crashing the party too.β
βSo weβre not the variable?β Steve finally notices the rhythm beneath the room. βWhereβs the real operation?β
βNo. Weβreβ¦ complicated.β She looks at him fully now. βThe real dealβs below us. Always below.β
Steve shoots his partner a loving (fake) look, as he tucks a loose black strand of hair behind her ear. βExplain.β
βA.I.M. doesnβt send soldiers into rooms like this,β Em says quietly. βThey send minds, brokers, and observers. And tonightβs host? Front-facing philanthropy, renewable energy. Very clean. Very convincing.β
His brow furrows slightly. βYouβre sure?β
βIβm never sure,β she replies lightly. βIβm just rarely wrong.β
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. βPhase oneβs over,β 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 β INTERNAL BREACH: MAY 11, 2012 β BERLIN, SUBLEVELS
They donβt run when it breaks. They peel away. Steve catches it firstβnot the motion, but the intent behind it. The crowd doesnβt scatter like civilians, not really. No frantic trampling, no blind pushing toward exits. Instead, they separateβclean, 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 didnβt know existed. A man drops his drink and doesnβt even look at it. Panic never fully blooms; it gets choked, managed, redirected by invisible pressure. People donβt scream as security personnel appear too fast, too coordinated, hands already on routes that werenβt there seconds ago. A system revealing itself.
And Emβs already moving. βWest corridor,β she pries her grip away from Steve's arm like it was never there. βService access. Theyβll funnel the noise toward the main exits and bury the real traffic below.β
Steve exhales once from the shiver that crosses his body in her absence. βShift just happened,β he mutters as he falls by her stride.
Sheβs already cutting left. Already weaving past bodies that are suddenly very interested in not seeing them.
Steve followsβbut thereβs a delay. Itβs 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. βYouβre guessingββ
βIβm not guessing,β Em snaps, already slipping past a pair of startled donors, her hand catching Steveβs wrist as she pulls him along like an afterthought sheβs decided to keep. βYou wanted objective? Objectiveβs downstairs.β
βI wanted intelββ
Em says under her breath, βYouβre getting movement instead. Adapt.β
He doesnβt like it. Doesnβt like that sheβs already ahead. So he uses his strength on her.
He doesnβt let her drag him far. His hand catches her forearmβfirm, controlled, not quite gentle. βSlow down,β he mutters, low enough that no one else hears it as her chest is pulled to his. βEm, we donβt know what weβre walking into.β
She turns her head, just slightly. Just to look at him, not annoyed. Worseβamused. βThatβs never stopped you before.β
βThatβs different.β
She stares at him for half a second longer than necessary. βHow?β
βIt just is,β he snaps, quieter than he wants but sharper than he meant.
Em twists her arm freeβnot aggressively, just enough to remind him she can despite the abasement of his manhandling. βTry to keep up, Rogers.β
The service corridor opens like a secret someone forgot to hide properly. The lighting drops immediately. Gone is the gold and the noise, now, itβs dim fluorescent hum, undecorated clean walls, and sterile traces of something too quiet and orderly.
Steveβs shoulders tighten instinctively. βFeels wrong,β he mutters.
βGood,β Em replies. βMeans weβre close to our target.β
They pass a door. Then another one with no markings, no labels. Then, A.I.M. doesnβt 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 allβ¦ 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 doesnβt. Or doesnβt stay where he moved. Steveβs punch hits. Air, then cloth, then nothing. He blinks. βWhat.β
The operative isnβt where he aimed. He was. He is again. No, heβsβ
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 shouldnβt be hittable if heβs 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. βPhase displacement,β she mutters, almost to herself.
Steve doesnβt have time to process the words. He recovers just in time to drive his shoulder into the second operative when he reappears wrongβhalf a step offset from where he should be. The impact lands, but the delayβthe microsecond mismatchβthrows off the him and his rhythm off. βYouβre seeing that, right?β he snaps.
βYes,β Em says in exasperation, breath steady, voice not. βTheyβre rewinding position. Not teleporting.β
Steve freezes. ββ¦thatβs not possible.β
βNeither is half the stuff you punch on a weekly basis, keep goingββ
β¦thatβsβno,β Steve breathes.
βYeah, dude, welcome to the club,β Em fires back. βFocusββ
The second operative is behind him now. But he didnβt move there. He became there.
Em swears, sharp and unfiltered, moving fast enough that her heel skids slightly on the tile, hand catching Steveβs shoulder and yanking him sideways before the strike lands. βYouβre welcome,β she snaps.
βI had it.β
They donβt finish the argument. Because the agent shudders as he slips free into existence once again. Then reappears behind Steve and operative lunges againβand hits again.
And this time Steve adjusts. He doesnβt 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 Steveβs 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 heβs running on breaking under actual force.
βWow,β Steve mutters. βThatβs weird.β
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. ββ¦okay,β she mutters. βI hate that.β
βSeen something like it,β Steve says, rolling his shoulder. βSeen similar tech, in hindsight, itβs not this badββ
βNot like that,β she cuts in. βThatβs not tech lag. Thatβs temporal bleed.β
βWhat does that even mean.β He looks at her. βYou say that like itβs better.β
βIt means it gets worse, Rogers.β
Before he can respond. Right on cueβa 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 instinctivelyβlike heβs expecting to feel a shield that isnβt thereβand pivots instead, grabs a metal service cart, flips it into its path, and it hitsβ¦ until it doesnβt.
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.
ββNull field,β Em says sharply, fingers already moving to adjust something he canβt see. βEnergy suppressionβdonβt rely on power or anything Stark built in the last five years. Don't panic.β
βI wasnβtββ
βYou will,β she shoots back. βYou always do whenββ
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 doesnβt 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 doesnβt hesitate. Fingertips tear through the seams of the droneβs 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. ββ¦youβre not going to explain that.β
She arches a brow. βNot as long as youβre insisting on going to town on punching things like you could break physics.β
ββ¦fair.β 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 doesnβt mean to, but something in him recognizes wrongness. βThere,β 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.
βDonβtββ Em starts.
Too late. The man turns. And for one clean second, heβs normal. Then he isnβt. He lunges. Half-solid. Half-not. Eyes open, not seeing, just staring through space instead of across it. Reality doesnβt resist him. It lets him pass.
Steve braces, catching him mid-impact on instinct. And immediately regrets it.
The weight isnβt stable. One second itβs there, the next itβs slipping, like trying to hold water that occasionally forgets itβs liquid. It shifts. Like holding something that forgets its own shape.
βWhat is this?β he grits out.
Em doesnβt answer immediately. Sheβs watching. Tracking. Reading. ββ¦test subject,β she says finally. βOr whatβs left of one.β
He doesnβt attack again. He spasms. The manβs form shudders and splits messily. Multiple versions and possibilities trying to resolve into one. Failing. Resolving again. Thenβheβs gone. Without fade or exit. Just gone.
Steve stares at where he was. ββ¦What the fuck.β
βWow. This is going on my top five horror movies,β Em says.
They stand there longer than they should. Silence hangs too long. Everything feels⦠off.
Her gaze doesnβt leave where the man disappeared. βPartial convergence isnβt local,β she says. βIt bleeds.β She finally turns to him. And for once, thereβs no sarcasm waiting. βPeople donβt flicker unless itβs already happening somewhere else.β
ββ¦English please.β Steveβs jaw tightens.
βStuff doesnβt glitch locally like that,β Em ignores his presence as she continues her train of thought, muttering to herself. βNot without something else feeding it. Something bigger.β
He doesnβt like where thatβs going. ββ¦how big.β
She doesnβt answer right away. She hesitates. Just a fraction too long. Then, refuses to soften it. βBuildings,β she says. βMaybe more.β
Steveβs stomach drops. βCities?β he presses.
βCities. Timelines overlapping for seconds at a time. Maybe longer.β
The hum of the facility deepens. The corridor shifts again. Lower and heavier. Or maybe he just notices it now. βThis isnβt a test,β he mutters.
Em shakes her head slowly. Then she looks straight at him. Eyes sharp. Unblinking. βItβs already started.β
PHASE 3 β THE CORE: MAY 11, 2012 β BENEATH THE FACILITY AND REALITY
The descent doesnβt feel wrong. It feels familiar. Thatβs 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. Thereβs something worse. Maybe itβs the rhythm. The contained pressure. The layers built on top of older things. HYDRA architecture. Just cleaner, sterilized, and rebranded.
Steve doesnβt clock that part. The second the numbers on the panel stop lining up. Lβ4 to Lβ9, to something that stutters like the system skipped a breath. His hand comes up automatically, bracing against the wall, feeling the change differently. βThatβs notββ
ββnormal?β 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. βYeah,β she mutters. βFile a complaint.β
He shoots her a look. And she doesnβt look back. Steveβs hand slams against the wall to steady himself. βThatβs not how floors work.β
The elevator doesnβt dropβit skips. One second the panel reads L-12, the next it flickers into something that isnβt numbers at allβfractured symbols that look like they canβt decide which direction to be read in. Then it jerks again and pauses on Lβ21, and passes the space upward.
βCongratulations,β 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. βRealityβs breaking protocol. File a complaint.β
The lights strobeβonce, 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 itβs waiting to see what youβll do first.
βHillββ Steve starts, instinctively reaching up, tapping the crackling comm. βMariaβstatus. Weβre approaching lower leββ A sharp, hollow slice of static noise cuts Steve off. Then, nothing.
He hits it again, harder this time. βWe completely lost comms.β
βYeah,β Em says, too quickly. Too flat. βI noticed.β
He exhales through his teeth, jaw tightening hard enough to hurt. βYou were experienced in disarming nuclear bombs and other tech in the military, right? Fix it.β
βOh, sure, βcause thatβs the same thing,β she snaps, already tearing her earpiece out and cracking it open with her thumbnail like it personally offended her. βHold on. Let me just negotiate with the laws of physics for better reception, Rogers.β
The elevator lurches. Shudders. Then stops. Not like a machine stopping. Like something else decided theyβd gone far enough. The doors donβt open. They separate and split, metal peeling sideways with a sound that shouldnβt belong anywhere near reinforced steel. Cold and bitter air rolls in. Old metal and stinging, like something decidedβhere.
They step out anyway.
Steve doesnβt 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 isnβt a corridor. Not consistently. At first glance, it tries to be. Itβs a lab with clean lines, modular consoles, glass partitions, half the walls are just panelingβwhite, bright, sterile.
Second glance, itβs 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 donβt match blueprint logic. All cracked, carved into by something massive, something that didnβt 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 inchβand his whole body and weight redistributing before it registers consciously. ββ¦nope.β
βUhuh, shut up.β Em snaps, already correcting her own balance without even looking down.
He mutters, βIβm just sayingββ
The air hums. Something overhead, dusty shrapnels of metal casing, maybe, slides sideways on Emβs loose black hair instead of falling. βYouβre always just saying.β
Steve watches it pass onto his shoulder. ββ¦gravityβs wrong.β
βNo, shit, Sherlock.β Em mutters. βYou discovered physics is optional today.β
He glares at her. βYouβre weirdly calm about this.β
βI grew up around worse,β she says.
It slips out. She hates that it slips out, because she knows Steve catches it. He just doesnβt push.
At least not as they move forward to the stable far wall. For half a second itβs a reinforced panel, then, burned steelβindustrial framework that looks older than the building itβs inside. βWhat the hellββ Steve stops. Actually stops. ββ¦you see that, right.β
βYeah,β she says quietly. βGravity shear,β Em says, already adjusting her stance like sheβs done this before.
They move forward. Because stopping isnβt an option. Because staying means letting whatever this is stabilize without interference. Becauseβhe doesnβt actually have a reason anymore. He just refuses to stand still. The corridor opens into overlap.
Another piece of debrisβmetal, maybe part of a wall panelβfloats past his shoulder. Sideways, like it found a different direction to fall in. Steve watches it, brow furrowing. βOkay, I donβt like this.β
βShocking,β she mutters.
The space in front of them doesnβt make sense. Itβs 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 flickersβclean, intactβthen charred and meltedβthen replaced with something pulsing faintly like itβs breathing. Like before.
Except before, it didnβt have three realities. Same space but not agreeing. Sees flashes of figures movingβghosts. Or not.
Steve grits out. βEm.β
βDonβt,β Em says quickly.
He looks at her. ββ¦donβt what?β
βDonβt trust your eyes,β Em says quietly. Too quietly. βDonβt treat it like itβs real.β
He looks at her. Sheβs not joking or smirking. Sheβs serious. Just enough to matter.
Silence. Thenβa sound. Not here. Gunfire echoesβexcept it doesnβt belong to this moment. Still, he hears it. No matter how distant. Steve turns instinctively, shield arm lifting that isnβt 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.
βWhat is that?β he demands, gesturing toward a spot where something that looked like himβhimβdropped to one knee under a blast that never fully resolved.
Em doesnβt look at it. βI donβt know,β she says. Which means she does, and she doesnβt like it.
βYou do.β
βFine! I know what it looked like.β she fires back, eyes lit with something thatβs not control anymore. βIt doesnβt matter what it looked like, Steve! Thatβs the point. Itβs showing probabilities, not guaranteed truth.β
He steps closer. Too close for polite space. βThose are people.β
βTheyβre echoes.β she snaps, voice cutting sharper than she probably intended.
They stare at each other. Too long. Too hard. βTheyβreββ
βTheyβre data!β Em feels the words hang on her tongue, long after she gutted them out. Ugly. Clinical. Wrong in a room that feels like itβs bleeding. Thenβthe floor shifts again. Violently.
Steve reaches out on instinct, hand catching her elbow before she slips into a sudden drop where the floor simplyβ¦ isnβt there anymore. βCareful.β
βDonβt,β she shoots back, breath uneven now. She doesnβt thank him. Of course she doesnβt. But her fingers tighten briefly against his sleeve. Not pulling away. Yet. βDonβt do that thing where you pretend youβve got this under control.β
βI doββ he mutters.
βNo, you donβt!β 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.
βGreat,β Em mutters. βNow itβs listening.β
βWe need a plan,β he says, forcing his voice back into something solid. Structured. Familiar. βWe locate the core, weββ
Em rolls her eyes at him as they move again. βOkay. Step 1: Stop asking questions you already hate the answers to.β
βTry me.β The core chamber opens in front of himβand for a secondβeven Em goes still.
Itβs not one space, itβsβthree. Like the lab from before, clean and operational. Except itβs layered with another version over it. Blown out, scorched, like something went wrong there. And it isnβt A.I.M. Not SHIELD. Repurposed framework. HYDRA. Emβs stomach drops.
Steve doesnβt notice that. He notices the machine. The βengine.β If thatβs what it is. With its wings, cables, and nergy cycling through like itβs breathing too fast, like the lab itβs centered in, half of it existing cleanly while the other half stutters. βOkay,β Steve says slowly. βThatβs not a bomb.β
βNo,β 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. βItβs worse.β
Steve then flits his gaze to Em, averting it from the mass of interlocking rings and fractured light, rotatingβbut not in the same direction at the same time. Half of it is solid machinery, Stark-level complexity twisted into A.I.M.βs design language. The other halfβdoesnβt stay. It phases, forms, and un-forms. βWhat is it.β
Because she knows the answer in principle, she knows saying it gives it weight. Instead, she finally says, βSomething someone shouldnβt have built.β
βThatβs not helpful.β He looks at her.
Em doesnβt answer right away. βNeither is you punching it.β
He exhales hard through his nose. βThatβs usually plan A.β
βThatβs why weβre here.β 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. βItβs not singular,β she says, voice quieter now. βItβs layered. Multiple states occupying the same space, same time.β
Steve steps forward. Careful now. ββ¦we shut it down,β he says, slow and cautious for once. βSo we break it. All of it.β
She lets out a short laugh. βYou think itβs that simple?β
βI think itβs always that simple.β
Em turns on him again. βAnd what happens when you destroy it here,β she gestures sharply, βbut not in the other states itβs anchored to? You punch one version of it and the rest keep running.β
βThen we keep hitting it.β
βNo.β She shakes her head immediately. βThat wonβt work.β
Steve turns. βHow do you knowββ
βBecause itβs not all there at the same time,β she snaps, gesturing at the overlapping layers. βYou hit it here, itβs still running there.β
He frowns. βThen we hit all of it.β
She laughs. Short. Sharp. βOh, great plan.β
βItβs worked beforeββ
βWhen?β she fires back. βWhen the enemy agreed to stay in one place?β
He steps closer, too close again. βThen explain it.β
βSteveββ Em stops, drags a hand down her face like sheβs trying to physically wipe the frustration off. βThatβs not how this works. It exists in probability. Not just matter. You canβt brute force something that isnβt consistently there.β
βWhatβs your suggestion,β he says, voice low now. He clenches his jaw. βIβm not just going to stand here andββ
βI didnβt say stand,β she cuts in, stepping closer, voice dropping but not softening. βI said think.β
βThinking doesnβt stop this.β
She stares at him. Then laughs again. Sharpened this time. βNeither does charging it like a battering ram!β
βWorked so far.β
βYeah,β she says. βBecause the last rooms we walked through werenβt literally unraveling existence.β
ββ¦Em,β he says quietly.
Sheβs already staring at it again. The air pulls inward into the engine like somethingβs testing pressure. A crack forms across one of the overlapping layers and Steve sees something stepping through. Not fully. But trying. Already realizing this isnβt just a device. Itβs a door someone doesnβt know how to close.
Then she looks at him. Really looks. And for the first time in this entire missionβthereβs something like urgency there that isnβt hidden behind attitude.
βWe donβt have a clean way out of this.β He says, with quiet certainty this timeβno sarcasm. More dangerous. βYou donβt get to wing it here.β
PHASE 4 β DATA EXTRACTION + SABOTAGE: MAY 11, 2012 β CORE CHAMBER
The lab flickersβclean, intactβbut weirder now, like itβs 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. Doesnβt say it.
The only thing Steve notices is how the fracture doesnβt 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 doesnβt 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 Emβs knee as she drops beside the core interfaceβif it can even be called that. Half physical. Half not. Wires exposed, but not consistently, some blink in and out like they arenβt sure they've been invented yet.
βStay out of my workspace,β Em snaps as she braces one hand against the shifting console and the other dives into the exposed wiring like sheβs done this her entire life.
Steve paces behind her. Not helping. Not not helping. Justβ¦ there. Too big for the space. Too wired with adrenaline and no clean outlet for it. βThis feels like a bomb,β he mutters.
βIt is a bomb,β Em shoots back without looking up. βThat is not a helpful distinctionββ
βNo, I meanβlike a bomb bomb.β Steve hovers. He doesnβt mean to. He steps inβthen backβthen forward again, like his body canβt decide whether to protect her or get out of her way. βThis feels like a bomb,β he mutters. βI mean likeβlike a real oneβlike wires and timing andββ
ββ¦Steve.β She finally glances at him. Just a look. Flat. βThis is not the time to downgrade the apocalypse into something you understand.β
βI understand bombs,β he shoots back. βIβve disarmedββ
She lets out an exhausted, humorless breath. βYou have not disarmed bombsββ
He exhales slowly, βIβve been around bombsββ
βThat doesnβt countββ
Steve looks back at the engine. At the fractures spreading outward from it. At the flickers of other outcomes bleeding into this one. βI know enoughββ
βFantastic,β she mutters. βWeβre all doomed.β
The console flickers and then, like itβs mocking them and a panel flickers open. Inside is wires. Actual wires. Blue. Red. Green. And somethingβ¦ else. Something that keeps changing shape when she tries to focus on it. One that keeps flickering in and out like it canβt commit to existing.
Em freezes. Just for a second. βOh, youβve got to be kidding meββ
Steve leans over her shoulder. Then immediately regrets existing in that position. ββ¦those are wires.β
βYes, thank you, Captain Obviousββ she says slowly, evenly, like sheβs explaining oxygen. βThose are wires.β
βNo, I meanβthose are wires, Em. Thatβsβokayβthatβs good.β he insists, voice rising slightly because something about this feels solvable now. βThatβs manageable.β
She turns her head slowly. Very slowly. βIf you say something deeply stupid right now, I will push you into a gravity tear.β
He points. At the panel. At the wires. ββ¦you need to cut the blue one.β
Silence. The kind that has teeth. Em rolls her lips together, inward, as she just stares at him. βWhat.β
He points anyway. ββ¦blue.β
A pause arrives. The kind that has weight.
ββ¦Iβm sorry,β she says, sighing. βWhat.β
βThe blue wire,β Steve repeats, faster now, because the machine jerks and the world behind him briefly turns into something that isnβt Berlin anymore. βYou cut the blue one. Because itβs usually the right oneββ 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 entirelyβa warzone, maybe, or a city collapsing sideways. βThe blue...β
She blinks. Once. Very slowly. ββ¦what the hell is βusuallyβ doing in this conversation?β
βItβs a system,β he insists, gesturing broadly like the universe will validate him if heβs convincing enough. βThere are patterns, design logic, β·fail-safes. Itβs likeβlikeββ He snaps his fingers. βTraffic lights.β
She goes completely still. ββ¦Huh?β
βTraffic Light Theory,β Steve says, nodding like that explains literally anything.
Em stares at him like she is actively considering violence. βWhat. The hell. Is a Traffic Light Theory.β
βOkayβlistenββ he starts, already talking faster now, hands moving, pacing picking up because he knows he sounds insane but heβs committing anyway. βRed is wrong. Green is obviousβitβs a trap. Everyone thinks green is right, which meansβstatisticallyβitβs notββ
βStatistically?!β she snaps, looking up at him now, incredulous. βYou are applying statistics to a MULTIVERSAL ENGINEββ
ββwhich makes blue the middle ground, the correct neutral choice under uncertain conditionsββ
βOh my god.β
βYou see it everywhere,β he pushes on, louder now because sheβs louder and this is spiraling and heβs not backing down. βStop signsβred means stop. Confirmation emails, green checkmarksβthatβs positive bias. Which means greenβs too obvious, redβs wrong, so blue is the logicalββ
She shoots up to her feet so fast the floor glitches under her. βBLUE ISNβT EVEN IN TRAFFIC LIGHTSββ
βExactly,β he fires back, jabbing a finger toward the panel like he just made a point that holds up under scrutiny. βWhich makes it the safe optionββ
Em takes one step and just jams her finger into his chest. Payback. Left side. Hard. Under the collarbone. βAre you LISTENING to yourselfβ?!β
He gaspsβnot because it hurt (it did, but not really), but because it surprised him. His eyes go wide. Annoyed. Offended. Immediate. βHeyβ!β
She does it again. Harder. βThis isnβt a wiring problem, Rogers! This is reality actively detaching from itself!β
Steve grabs her wrist, yanks her hand back. And smacks it away. βStopβpokeβingββ
βOh my god,β Em snaps, shaking out her fingers. βDid you justβdid you seriously just use your strength on meβ?β
βYou poked meββ
βThat is not a valid escalationββ He pushes her back a step. Not hard. Not intentionally hard. But enough.
She stumbles. Catches herself. Oh. Oh, sheβs pissed now. βDidβdid you seriously just push me?β
βI moved you out of the wayββ
βYou shoved meβ!β she demands, stepping right back into his space.
βI did not shoveββ he jabs her again. Right side this time. βDonβtβpokeβmeβ!β he snaps, swatting her hand awayβ
She swats back. βDonβtβmanhandleβmeβ!β
They both pause. Just long enough to realizeβthey 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 otherβs space like two people who know exactly how strong the other is. And are ignoring it out of sheer irritation.
βFocus!β Steve snaps, blocking another jab. βWe need toββ
ββyou started thisβ!β
He tries to square off with something that refuses to cooperate with direction. βI did notβ!β
βYou invented a fake theory about traffic lightsββ
Steve mutters under his breath, already repositioning, βITβS NOT FAKEββ
βOH MY GODββ
The voice cuts through everything. βAhem.β 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 keepsβ¦ shifting. Slight offsets. One breath ahead, one delayed. Like the universe hasnβt decided which version of him deserves to be here the longest. ββ¦of all the projections I ran,β Voss says, each version of him finishing the sentence at a slightly different time, βthis was not one of them.β
Steve straightens immediately. Posture snapping back into something resembling command.
Em doesnβt move right away. Still catching her breath. Still glaring at Steve. Then she finally looks. ββ¦hi,β she says flatly.
He watches them. Hands clasped behind his back and head tilted just enough to convey disappointment. ββ¦I anticipated resistance,β one of him speaks and adds, voice tightening, βI did not account for this.β
Steve exhales sharply through his nose. βWe were handling it.β
Voss blinks. Actually blinks, and just stares at him. ββ¦you were hitting each other in the literal epicenter of a multiversal convergence event,β he says slowly, like heβs trying to decide if theyβre worth explaining this to, βthe primary chamber of a convergence engine built to model higher-order spatial conflict scenarios, and youβre arguing aboutββ He gestures vaguely. ββcolor theory.β
Em crosses her arms. βHe started it.β
βI did not.β
βOh, Iβm sorry, was I the one who brought up traffic lights?β
βBecause it makes senseββ
βItβs childish idiosyncrasyβ"
Vossβs voice cracks through the chamber and the engine responds. βENOUGH.β Reality pulls tighter for half a second. Like itβs listening. Like itβs waiting. He watches them fail to decide. Smiles. Then doesnβt. Then smiles again, not quite synced. βYouβre loud,β he says. Except three of him say it, staggered, overlapping. One amused. One irritated. One already bored. βFor intruders.β
βYeah, we get that a lot,β Steve fires back, a little sharper than necessary.
Em shoots him a look. βMaybe donβt antagonize the unstable physicist sitting inside a broken universe.β
βIβm not antagonizingβIβmββ A pulse rolls off the engine.
βWatch where youββ She slams her palm into his chest to steady herself, just below his collarbone again. βYouβre absolutely antagonizingββ
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 thereβfinger marks blooming quick against her skin.
She stares at it. Then at him. Then, smacks his hand away. Hard. βOh great,β she flexes her fingers like sheβs trying to shake the sting out. βSuper soldier grip in a brittle timeline. Fantastic pairing.β
He snaps. βIt was an accidentββ
Frustration courses through her now, visible and unfiltered. βYou always say thatββ
He exhales sharply, βI donβtββ
βYou do, you just say it betterββ
βCan we focus?!β
βOn what?β she fires back, gesturing wildly at the engine, at Voss, at the room that wonβt sit still long enough to be pointed at. βThe man splitting himself into philosophical errors or the device tearing holes in everything we understand?!β
βYes!β Steveβs 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. βYou are in my chamber,β 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. ββand youβre arguing like an old married coupleββ
Em lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. βYeah,β she says. βWe get that too.β
Steve sees dust, ruined structures, a skyline collapsing in slow motion. Then it flickersβand heβs back. Except not entirely. He blinks. Hard. ββ¦that wasnβtββ
βFocus,β she mutters again, but itβs not at him this time. Itβs at herself. Her gaze shiftsβlocks onto the central array embedded within the unstable structure of the engine. A core. Just the one currently agreeing to exist. βThere,β she says, already moving. βData spine. Physical memory anchor. If we can pull what theyβve mappedββ
Another pulse, stronger this time, flaring and suddenly the space overlays hard. βWe donβt have timeββ
βWe donβt have a choice,β she snaps, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him a step before letting go just as fast. βDestroying this blind makes it worse.β
Vossβs expression finally cracks into something sharper. βYou think you understand it.β
They ignore him. For about half a second.
Steve moves first this time, stepping into the unstable gravity field like itβs just another shifting battlefield. His footing adjusts automatically, recalibrating faster than the distortions can fully throw him off. βTell me what you need,β he says.
Emβs already at the console, or what passes for one. Half of it is solid metal and interface. The other half flickers between languages that shouldnβt exist and interfaces that respond before she fully touches them. Her fingers hover. Then press.
The system resists.
βSeriously?β she mutters. βYouβre going to make this interactive?β It pulses in response. βOkay, good,β she says tightly. βI love puzzles when the puzzle is the universe collapsing.β
βI see itββ Steveβs 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. βEmββ
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. ββnot fair,β he mutters, shaking it off.
βYouβre applying linear expectations to nonlinear existence,β Voss replies, stepping through him, his form overlapping for half a second, electric and cold. βThatβs your first mistake.β
Steve turns, swings, contacts nothing. βYeah, I figured that,β he snaps.
Behind him, Em swears. The console splinters. Half of it glitches out entirely, data flickering into something unreadable. βCome onββ 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. βSteve, I need him distractedββ She doesnβt look at him when she says it. βEffectively!β
βDefine effective,β 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.
βAlive!β she snaps.
He barks a short, humorless laugh. βWorking on it.β
βCome onβ¦ come onβ¦β 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 stretchesβthen snaps back just enough to keep them from falling through it entirely. Her stomach drops. But her hands donβt stop. βThis isnβt contained,β she murmurs under her breath. Again. But now, she knows how bad.
On the display are fragments, βGLOBAL SITES. PARTIAL EVENTS. TIME SLIPS.β People blinking in and out. Cities skipping seconds. Coordinates that donβt hold still long enough to map.
Steve blocks another hitβthis one from an angle that shouldnβt exist relative to where Voss is standing, and growls under his breath, βYou almost done?!β
βNo!β Itβs bleeding outward under Emβs palms. Already. And whatever they do next doesnβt stop it clean. It just decides how bad it gets. βBecause Iβm trying to stop us from making this worse!β
Steve snaps back. βWhatβs worse than this!β
She yanks the drive free and plugs in another one for the other data set. βBreaking it without knowing how it breaks everything else!β Em turnsβand finally looks at him like heβs missing the point so hard it physically hurts.
Destroy the engine? It doesnβt die everywhere.
Stabilize it? Someone else will take it.
Steal the data? You spread the problem.
βWhatever the options are!β Steve turns too fast, shoulders squaring out of instinct, stance wideningβfight-ready, always fight-readyβbut thereβs nowhere clean trajectory or single target to anchor that instinct anymore. βPick one and stay there,β he mutters under his breath.
βWorking on it,β Em says, already movingβnever toward him when things get like thisβbut sideways, eyes tracking three Vosses at once like sheβs trying to triangulate the version that breathes.
And Voss smiles. Just one of him this time. βSince you insist on being here,β he says, voice settling into something colder, sharper, certain. βI suppose Iβll explain what youβre about to fail to stop.β
PHASE 5A β VOSS: CORE CHAMBER β MAY 11, 2012 (WHERE THE ARGUMENT DOESNβT STOP EVEN WHEN IT SHOULD)
Steve notices something else, the way Voss, or one of him is half a step off. Anotherβs shoulder clips through a shifting before correcting itself like nothing happened.
βOh, by all means,β Voss says, almost delighted, voice echoing itself by a fraction of a second. βReduce a non-linear phenomenon into something you can throw a punch at.β
βYeah,β she mutters at Voss. βKeep telling your arrogant ass that while reality folds itself into origami behind you.β
βWorked so far,β Steve fires back, a little too sharp, a little too immediate because it has, up to this point, and heβs not wrong.
Em shoots him a look. Now? Really?
The floor dips. Steve shifts instinctivelyβhand snapping out, catching her elbow before she fully tilts into a section where gravity briefly forgets itself. βCarefulββ
βUgh,β Em snaps immediately, wrenching her arm back a fraction harder than necessary. βQuit it with that thing where you act like youβve got control.β
He cuts in. βIβm keeping you fromββ
βYouβre reacting,β she cuts in, sharper now. βYouβre not controlling anything. Ease up, soldier.β
Steve runs a hand through his hairβfast, frustrated, grounding himself in the only way he can right now. βBetter than standing stillββ
Em glances between themβthen back at the engineβthen makes the call anyway. βAt least standing still doesnβt pretend itβs solving the problemββ
Behind them, louder this time, the room fractures widerβoverlaying 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. βYou disagree on methodology, but not on threat assessment.β
Em snaps her gaze toward him. βDonβt start analyzing me likeββ
βLike a system?β Voss finishes smoothly. βBecause you are one. Both of you are. Differently calibrated, admittedlyβbutββ
ββyouβre talking too much,β Steve cuts in, stepping forward, hand already coming up, ready to grab, to anchorβsomething, anything.
Voss doesnβt move. Not one version of him. Thatβs the problem. βYouβre asking the wrong question,β Voss says calmly. βYouβre asking how to shut it down.β
βAnd thatβs wrong?β Steve demands.
Em exhales slowly, eyes flicking back to the console, to the data she found wasn't good news. βShutting it down clean isnβt an option,β she says quietly.
Steve looks at her. ββ¦since when.β
βSince it stopped being one system,β she replies, tapping the panel, pulling up the fractured mapping of the engineβs state. βItβs layered now. You hit one stateβtwo more compensate.β
His jaw tightens. βThen you hit those tooββ
βWith what?β she snaps, spinning back toward him. βA second set of fists? A third? A fourth until your arm falls off?β
βWould you twoββ Voss startsβ
They ignore him. Because the argument is louder. Closer. More immediate. βWe need a plan,β he says, a little louder than he means to. βIf we try hard enough. We can justββ
Em laughs. Not amused. Not even close. βBreak it?β
ββyes, break it,β he shoots back.
βYou swing at this and you donβt end the problemβyou spread it,β she snaps, gesturing at the engine, at the flicker zones creeping outward, at the places where the room already doesnβt know which version of itself it belongs to.
βThen we donβt let it spread,β he says, stepping forward again, forcing himself closer to the machine despite the discomfort crawling under his skin from the instability in the air.
βYou donβt get to decide that,β she fires back. βYou donβt get toββ
βI donβt get to what? Try?β he snaps.
βYou donβt get to treat this like itβs Brooklyn, Steve!β Em snaps right back, spinning on him fully now, voice cracking sharper than she probably intended. βYou donβt get to throw a punch and expect the world to behave!β
That lands. Hard.
βYeah,β he says quietly. βAnd you donβt get to talk like itβs already lost.β
βOh my godββ Em paces nowβshort, sharp turns that keep having to adjust when the floor doesnβt hold still long enough for her feet to trust it. βYou are not the solution to every problem that breaks containment!β She sighs amd her expression hardens. βAt least Iβm doing something.β
βYouβre not. Youβve been pulling data this entire time like itβs going to magically fix this.β Steve shoots back immediately. βAnd itβs taking too longββ
βItβs called information,β Emβs hands tighten slightly at her sides. βAnd rushing it makes it worseβ!β
Steve steps forward slightly now, voice cutting sharper than before. βStanding here arguing makes it worse tooββ
She drags a hand down her face, βThen stop talkingβ!β
βThen stop contradictingβ!β They stop. Right there. Breathing hard. Standing too close again.
Voss just watches them. ββ¦itβs almost impressive,β he mutters. βYouβre both correct. And completely ineffective.β
βThat doesnβt help,β Steve says flatly.
βYouβre going to make a choice,β Voss continues, voice smoothing out like heβs settling into something heβs been building toward since they walked into his chamber. βYou already are, whether you acknowledge it or not. You destroy it,β Voss says, βand you risk destabilizing every point itβs already touched. You contain it,β he continues, βand you guarantee someone else learns from it.β
Neither option is clean or safe. Steve looks at the engine again, then at Em, βThen we split the difference. We pull the data,β he continues, cutting her off, with something grounded even when nothing else is. βWe destabilize it enough to shut it down gradually.β
βThat leaves a window,β she sees right through his Captain facade.
βYeah,β he says. βIt does. And in that window, we get out,β he finishes.
βHow unbearably naive of you. As always.β Em snarls at him. Because she knows and hates that logic. βThat doesnβt solve the bigger issue.β
βNo,β Steve agrees. βIt solves this one.β
Voss smiles. Because now, theyβre thinking like him. And they donβt even realize it. ββ¦good,β he murmurs, and tilts his head slightly. All three versions doing it just off-sync enough to make the motion feel wrong. βYouβre finally asking the right questions,β he says. Three of him still existβbut theyβreβ¦ agreeing more. Which is worse. βI told you. You were asking the wrong question. Probably because youβre looking at the aftermath. Not the origin. Small-scale anomalies,β Voss continues, pacing nowβthree versions of him drifting in slightly different paths before snapping back into rough alignment. βMomentary phase loss. Spatial hiccups. Misaligned physics resolving too quickly for your intelligence to classify it as a pattern.β
PHASE 5B β VOSS (THE PLAN HE THINKS IS INEVITABLE): CORE CHAMBER β MAY 11, 2012 (WHERE BAD IDEAS SOUND LIKE STRATEGY)
Emβs hand tightens at her side. Steve notices. ββ¦youβre saying this started before tonight.β
βIβm saying,β Voss says slowly, almost pleased, voice starting to sync between versions as reality accommodates him instead of resisting him, ββthat tonight is simply the first time you noticed.β
Steveβs gaze hardens. ββ¦and this thing,β he says, jerking his head toward the machine, βis causing it.β
βNo,β he says. βItβs measuring it.β Voss tilts his head. Like heβs trying to map her against something he already half-believes. βInstability. Damage that already exists. Iβm tracking progression.β
βProgression of what? Structural failure? Energy overflow?β Em lets out a humorless breath. βPick a term we can actually stop.β
Vossβs smile widens. βYou think this is structural?β He gestures at the machine, at the flickers, at them. βThis is systemic.β
Steve shakes his head, grounding himself, trying to pull this back into something he can work with. βOkay,β he says, forcing it. βThen whatβs your end goal.β
βPreparation.β Voss doesnβt hesitate.
Em almost laughs. βThatβs not a plan.β
βItβs the only one that survives whatβs coming,β he replies, not missing a beat. βYou keep talking like thereβs something bigger behind this.β
βThere is.β The certainty in that answer, immediate and unshaken, is what makes it land, and the same voice drops slightly. βAfter New York,β he says, almost conversational now, βyou all adapted very quickly, didnβt you?β
Steve can feel his shoulders tighten as he snarls at the same time as Em. βWe handled it.β
βNo. You survived it. And now?β Voss continues. βNow everyone wants control of the next event before it happens.β His gaze flicks briefly at the space beyond them. βEvery asset, object, and energy source is being studied. Recovery operations escalating under classified directives across multiple organizations.β
Emβs expression doesnβt 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. βYouβre building a model,β she says slowly.
Voss nods. βOf how systems fail under external pressure,β he replies. βOf how reality behaves when exposed to forces it wasnβt designed to accommodate.β
Steve scoffs. ββ¦you sound like every weapons developer Iβve ever put down.β
βAnd you sound like every soldier who thinks stopping one threat stops the next,β Voss shoots back.
Steveβs jaw tightens. βDifference is,β he says, quieter now, βmost of them didnβt tear their own foundations apart trying to prove a point.β
Vossβs expression doesnβt soften. βWell. Itβs already tearing,β he says flatly. βIβm simply accelerating observation.β
Emβs mind clicks through options instinctively, faster than she can voice them. ββ¦Iβm not exactly a saint like him, but even I gotta admit youβre forcing pressure spikes. Breaking thresholds to map failure faster.β She shakes her head. βThatβs not control. Thatβs provoking collapse.β
Vossβs expression shifts. Interest. βYou still think this is something you can end,β he says softly. βNo. Itβs learning where it breaks first.β
Steve exhales sharply. ββ¦people are getting caught in that.β
βCollateral exists in every system,β Voss replies calmly. βThatβs not avoidable. Think of all the wars you fought, Captain.β
Steve glances at Em and her hands already plugging, adjusting, data handling. Then turns back to Voss. βSo hereβs the part youβre not getting. Whatever you think youβre preparing forβthis ends here.β
The system flickers into a new state, unstable and temporary.
βAlmost there,β Emβs voice cuts through it allβsharply sorting again through the second to last batch of key files. Focused. βSteve,β she says under her breath. He doesnβt look at her. But he hears the shift. βWe donβt stop him by arguing,β she continues, fingers moving faster now through the unstable interface. βWe pull what we can and destabilize the cycle.β
Voss exhales slowly. And for the first timeβlooks almost disappointed. βI havenβt even started explaining the implications,β he says.
βThatβs fine. Youβre not going to get the chance.β Steve doesnβt wait for him to keep talking. Heβs already had enough of the smirking. Enough of the halfβanswers. His hand lifts him clean off the ground, boots scraping uselessly against a floor that isnβt even staying horizontal anymore. βStop dancing around it. You keep saying this doesnβt end hereβso say what does.β
Vossβs misaligned body jitters in Steveβs grip. One version of him hangs higher. Another lags. A third flickers behind his shoulder like an after-mirage that refuses to leave. And stillβhe smiles. βOh, there it is. The point where you finally realize brute force wonβt save you. If you kill me, you lose the information you need," he breathes, uneven but thrilled, gaze flicking to Em, "βAnd she dies.β
"I won't let that happen." Steve jerks him slightly. βTalk.β
βFine,β Voss says, breath catching, then steadying like heβs slipping into a lecture heβs rehearsed too many times. βYou want scale? You want context? You want something that explains why thisββhe jerks his chin toward the fractured engineββexists at all?β Then, he stops pretending this is just about A.I.M. βThis began long before tonight,β he says. βBefore Berlin. Before your mission logs. Before you even recognized the pattern. New York changed everything. You think it ended with that battle,β Voss continues. βYou think the alien came, lost, and that was the end of it.β
βAgain. It was handled,β Steve says flatly in time with Em. "The Avengers stepped in."
βNo,β he says. βIt was revealed.β Voss lets out a short laugh. βDo you remember what powered that invasion?β He presses, voice sharpening. βWhat opened the sky? What held that gate open long enough to let a Chitauri army through? The Tesseract. The jewel of Odinβs treasure room,β The doctor murmurs mockingly, quoting like heβs savoring it. βSomething that one not buries.β
Steveβs eyes narrow. βYou quoting ghosts now?β he mutters.
βIβm quoting foresight,β Voss snaps. He leans forward slightly in Steveβs gripβlike gravity is optional as long as conviction holds. βI have seen the future, Captain! There are no flags!β He repeats, voice rising, fragmented versions of him overlapping the line out of sync. βAnd you know what makes that statement interesting?β he adds, quieter now.
Steve exhales slowly. ββ¦Youβre building your plan off the ramblings of a dead fanatic.β
βNo,β Voss says. βYou all laughed it off,β Voss says. βMadness. Delusion. A man consumed by something he didnβt understand. What if he wasnβt wrong?β
Another flicker of green lightβjust for a second. The room goes quieter. Em steps back toward the console. That's what gives her away.
For the first timeβthereβs a flicker of something like irritation. βIβm building it off the fact that he touched it,β he says. βThe same way others have. The same way your βenemiesβ continue to pursue it.β He pauses and lets that sit. Then drops the wordββHYDRA.β
Steve sees it. ββ¦what about HYDRA,β Steve says slowly.
Vossβs gaze cuts to Em again. βOh, they never stopped,β he says softly. βYou think they died with a name and a symbol?β He laughs under his breath. βThey adapted. They went deeper. Smaller cells. Broader reach. Less visible infrastructure. And theyβre chasing the same thing we are.β He smiles. βThe strongest power source in existence,β he says. βNot theoretical. Not hypothetical. Proven. Demonstrated. Objects that bend reality not because theyβre misused,β he continues, βbut because they define the rules being broken.β
Steveβs grip tightens. βYou mean the Tesseract. The Space Stone.β
βI mean all of them,β Voss corrects quietly. βThere isnβt 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 scaleβand you barely contained it. Now imagine multiple organizations learning from that.β
Steve tilts his head. He doesnβt like where this is going. ββ¦A.I.M.,β he mutters.
βAnd HYDRA,β Voss cuts in immediately. βWorking in parallel. Separately. Competing. You just happen to be standing in the more successful lab.β
The console behind Em glitchesβdata flashing coordinates that don't stabilize. Thatβs 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. ββ¦what does that mean,β he asks quietly.
Voss doesnβt answer. Not directly. βI went underground,β he says instead. βOff-grid. No oversight. No interference.β His smile sharpens. βNo ideology. No loyalty. Just progression. And while HYDRA rebuilt its mythologyβ¦β He spreads his hands slightly. βI built results.β
Em unsteady breathingβthatβs what sets something off in Steve. Because she never slips like that. ββ¦Em,β he says.
She doesnβt look at him. Voss watches both of them. And realizesβhe hit something. βYou recognize this,β he says softly.
Em closes her eyesβjust for a second. Too slow. Too late. βCareful,β she says. But thereβs not enough bite in it.
Steve looks between them now. ββ¦what is he talking about.β
βYou were there when it started,β Voss continues, voice sharpening now, leaning into it. βShe knows,β Voss says. βShe knows what happens when power like this isnβt controlled. Because she comes from the only system that ever tried to define it.β
Steveβs voice hardens. βSay it clearly or I drop you.β
βFine.β Voss smiles again. βBalance fails,β he says. βSystems expand beyond their limits. Worlds collapse into each other. Matter breaks down at a structural level.β His voice lowers. βAnd something forces correction. You left that correction unfinished,β he says, pointingβnot physically, but directly at her now. βYou hesitated. You chose self over system.β
βThatβs enoughββ Emβs breathing sharpens, voice turning dangerous. βYou donβt know anything aboutββ
Voss cuts in, louder now, conviction cracking through him. βI know enough. Enough to see that everything happening nowβevery instability, every convergence vector, every collapse impactββ He leans forward against Steveβs grip. ββtraces back to that failure. Itβs the truth. You walked away from your function.β
PHASE 5C β VOSS (WHEN HIS THEORY STOPS SOUNDING LIKE THEORY): CORE CHAMBER β WHERE SOMEONE FINALLY SAYS IT OUT LOUD
It snaps. Not the machine. Not yet. But Steve does.
The moment Voss smiles againβthat calm, measured, pleased look like theyβre finally speaking his languageβSteveβs patience fractures clean through. He moves. βEnough,β Steve growls, voice low, dangerous, the kind that scrapes the air instead of filling it. βYouβre going to stop talking in circles and youβre going to explain exactly what this is.β His grip tightens. Just enough.
For half a secondβall three versions of Voss try to exist in that moment. Two of them flicker. The third staying. βThatβs the thing. If A.I.M. doesnβt do thisβif I donβtβHYDRA will.β Vossβs eyes flick to Em. He continues calmly, almost kindly, like heβs explaining something inevitable to children. βThey already are. You wanna know how? Stone recovery. Signal triangulation. Temporal inference engines seeded across old infrastructure.β He chuckles under his breath. βDid you really think they stopped after losing a name?β He coughs once, then exhales, eyes sharpening as his focus returns. βYou want the plan? You want the difference between what Iβm doing and what you think Iβm doing?β
Steve doesnβt respond. He just holds him higher. ββ¦how much larger.β
Vossβs 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. βThis doesnβt end here. This,β He gestures weakly toward the fractures tearing the chamber apart, βis not the event. Itβs a symptom. A preview of a limited-scale expression of something much larger already building momentum.β
Silence slams into the room. Steve frowns. ββ¦what.β
βEvery projection Iβve run,β Voss continues, voice steadier now despite the position, as if heβs speaking from somewhere deeper than his body, βevery model, every extrapolated collapse curveβconverges on the same outcome.β He smiles again. βIn approximately thirteen yearsβ¦ correction occurs.β
Reality tightens but Steve doesnβt 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. ββ¦correction?β Steve repeats slowly. ββ¦youβre talking about extinction.β
βNo,β Voss replies immediately. And he means it. βIβm talking about equilibrium. Stability that reasserts itself. By removing everything that prevents it.β The words hang there. Heavy. Wrong.
The engine surges. Tβ01:42.
Emβs jaw tightens.
Voss doesnβt miss it. βYouβve heard versions of this before,β he says, gaze locking on her now, almost eager. βBalance. Necessary loss. Weighted outcomes. Except,β Voss continues, βback thenβit required force. But now," he adds softly, "it happens naturally.β
Steve shakes his head. βNo,β he says flatly. βThatβs not how anything works.β
βNo,β 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. βThatβs not how it used to work. Without intervention, systems expand beyond their capacity to coexist.β 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. βImagine it, Captain. Every possible variation of reality occupying the same structural foundation. No containment. No pruning. No hierarchy. They donβt merge. They collide. Planets intersect. Physics contradicts itself. Matter stretches beyond cohesion reducing everything to unusable particulate energy.β
βYouβd call it theoretical,β Voss goes on, βif I hadnβt already observed early stage behavior. Partial overlaps. Temporal slips. Youβve seen them. Youβve felt them.β
Steve doesnβt answer. Because yeahβhe has. His grip tightens because that sounds like something you canβt fight. βAnd when the system canβt sustain that pressure?β
βIt fails.β Voss smiles. βBut 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.,β His gaze doesnβt leave her, he corrects himself, voice sharpening, βYou want to know why Iβm doing this?β he continues, ignoring her entirely now. βWhy Iβm forcing convergence events earlyβeven at limited scale?β
Steveβs grip tightens again. ββ¦enlighten me.β
Voss watches Em. Not Steve. βThey never stopped,β he says quietly. βThey adapted. They learned. Theyβre already studying the same phenomenaβsame instability vectorsβsame sources of energy.β He tilts his head slightly. βThey just call it something else.β
Steve looks at her again. Really looks this time. ββ¦Em.β
She doesnβt meet his eyes. Because whatever heβs sayingβitβs close enough to something real to matter.
Tβ01:18.
Voss smiles faintly. βShe understands exactly what happens when systems like this fall into the wrong hands.β He says softly.. βBecause she built one once.β
That lands like a dropped weight. Steve stiffens. ββ¦thatβs notββ
βShe chose wrong,β Voss presses, voice rising slightly now, pushing past restraint into something accusatory, something personal. βShe had the capacity to stabilize, a natural predisposition to controlβto define outcomes by ensnaring the senses, brewing fame, and bottling glory. And instead?β Voss continues. βShe chose hesitation. Individual morality. Preservation.β
Steveβs grip tightens harder now. βWatch itββ
βI am,β Voss snaps back. βBecause thisβthis entire scenario, it exists because that choice delayed correction! Naive ideologies,β Voss spits, voice cracking under the force of his own conviction. βSentimentality. Humanity.β He laughs again. βHumanity,β he repeats. As if itβs the punchline. βAnd now,β he continues, breath uneven, gaze locked forward, βthe system builds pressure again. Same imbalance. Same inevitable collapse. And this time?β His eyes flick to Em. βIt wonβt hesitate.β
Em exhales slowly. ββ¦youβre insane.β
βThat man,β Voss continues, voice gaining momentum, βtouched 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. βThe Tesseract has shown me the future. I am destined for glory.β
Steveβs grip tightens around Vossβs collar. βHow do you know that.β
Tβ00:57.
Voss looks at him. Really looks. βTemporal magic,β he says simply.
The room flickersβjust for a heartbeatβinto something else. A cliff painted with purple shadows. A sky that isnβt Earthβs. Gone. βAnd when it deemed him unworthy?β Voss goes on. βIt didnβt kill him. It reassigned him. You think thatβs coincidence?β Voss presses. βNo. Itβs classification. Systems deciding where pieces belong. And HYDRA?β Voss says softly. βThey understand that now. Theyβre building machines to find them. To scrape the planet for signatures that shouldnβt exist.β He looks at Em again. βYou know this. You went underground. Off-grid. Nomad. No flags.β He laughs. βThatβs why A.I.M. found more. Faster.β
"This is senile. Pointless." Steve doesnβt think. He just lets go. "You're pointless."
CORE CHAMBER β Tβ00:46
Em doesnβt decide. She executes.
The space between her and Voss collapses in a way that makes Steveβs brain lags half a beat behind his eyes. One second sheβs kneeling at the console, fingers hovering over a panel that canβt agree on whether it exists, and the next sheβs already moving, body cutting through unstable gravity like itβs an inconvenience instead of a threat.
Steve opens his mouth. Doesnβt get a word out. Because sheβs already there.
Her hand snaps upβnot glowing, but unchargedβjust a set of placed fingers locking into a narrow hollow under Vossβs jaw at the exact pressure point right where muscle, nerve, and blood pressure intersect. Itβs not pretty or kind. But itβs the kind of move that predates ideology and doesnβt care how clever the target thinks he is.
Military. Old. Practiced into muscle memory until hesitation is removed entirely.
Vossβs 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 midβmove. 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.
Thereβs a sharp, dull soundβair 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 thingβunconscious.
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. ββ¦you didnβt warn me.β
Em doesnβt turn around. Her shoulders are still squared, spine rigid like sheβs braced for retaliation that isnβt coming. Her fingers flex once at her sideβsubtle, involuntaryβlike sheβs trying to shake the phasing sensation passed from Voss out of her hand. βI didnβt have time.β
Tβ00:41
The engine answers her. It doesnβt hum anymore. Thereβs sound and air compressing violently, snapping against Steveβs 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. βOkayβokayββ he barks, words tumbling over each other as he moves, hands gesturing like motion itself might anchor reality. βHard shutdown. We overload it nowββ
βNo.β Emβs voice cuts through himβsharp, immediate. βThat implodes everything in range.β
βEmββ
She gestures violently around them, voice cracking just enough to betray the strain sheβs holding back. βWalls. Floors.β She repeats, louder now, spinning on him fully. βThat turns this chamber into a crater and rewrites whatever history it feels like on the way out. Including us.β
βThen Option B,β he presses, voice cracking around the edges now. βStabilize it. Freeze the convergence.β
βThat leaves the research intact!β she shouts back, the words bouncing against the chamberβs warped acoustics, echoing wrong, overlapping itself like the room is arguing with her volume.
Time is no longer passing in seconds. Itβs 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 shouldnβt exist, sparks that fall sideways, fragments of light that donβt fade so much as give up.
Tβ00:29
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. Theyβve stopped shakingβnot because she isnβt afraid, but because fear has run out of places to go. Itβs all in her chest now, a tight, choking pressure that makes every breath feel borrowed.
Emβs breath stutters. Her hand dives into her jacket and comes back with a slim black USBβher 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. ββ¦youβre making copies.β
βTwo,β she snaps. βAlways two.β
The console resistsβflickers, tries to become something elseβbut she presses harder, knuckles whitening, jaw locked like sheβs 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. βCome on,β he mutters, not sure who heβs talking to. βCome onβcome onββ
The chamber lurches again. He catches himself on a railing that wasnβt there a second ago. His comm cracklesβMaria Hillβs voice almost breaks through. Then dies. Gone. Underground. Cut off. Alone.
DOWNLOADING⦠29%
βEm,β he says, voice tight. βWeβre losing time.β
βI know,β she snaps, eyes locked on the bar. βI can see numbers.β
DOWNLOADING⦠37%
The engine pulses harder. The air buckles. A fracture tears open across the far wall, showing something else entirely for half a secondβan empty skyline, buildings mid-collapse, a future that never asked permissionβ
Gone. Steve swallows. ββ¦this is already active.β
DOWNLOADING⦠42%.
βYes,β she says. βAnd if you say βwe should abortβ I will personally kill you before the engine does.β
The bar jumps. DOWNLOADING⦠47%
βMariaβHillβdo you readββ 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 heβs 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 heβs been holding together with sheer will. His breathing is too fast now. His heart is slamming hard enough to feel in his throat. βThen whatβ?!β he demands, and this time thereβs no command voice left, just raw urgency."What's the plan?"
DOWNLOADING⦠78%
Em looks away from him. Sheβs 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 wonβt sit still long enough to read. Her jaw tightens. ββ¦Option C.β
Steve blinks. βThat wasnβt an option.β
βIt is now.β The bar hits DOWNLOADEDβ¦ 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 Steveβs jacket pocket hard enough to knock the breath out of him. βGet this out,β she snaps, fingers curling into his suit like she might physically anchor the order into him. βEven if I donβt.β
βWhat are youββ He grabs her wrist. βIβm not leaving you here.β
βNo. Iβm not going.β The engine screams again in beat with her adrenaline's clockwork pulse.
Steve steps closer to her. βYou pull the data and we go.β
"Rogers. Listen to me." Em whips her head up. βYou go.β
βWhat?β He finally turns. Eyes sharp. Wet. Determined.
βGet the drive out,β she says. βIf this doesnβt workβif I donβtββ
Her jaw tightens. βDonβt go soft on me now, Rogers.β
βIβm notββ
βYou are,β she fires back. βYou hesitate, you die. You hesitate, this thing takes half the city with it.β
βEmββ
She cuts him off, "Stop." For the first time ever, this has been the softest her voice went.
βNo 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. Youβre my partner,β he blurts. βAnd youβre the only one who seems to know how HYDRA thinksβand somehow hates them as much as I do. I need you.β
βThis isnβt survivalβthis isβthis is you getting attached,β she cuts in.
βYeah.β Steve corrects her. βAnd right now my attachment and emotional contamination is gonna help you get out of here even more.β
The clock flares into existence in his peripheral vision.
Tβ00:17
She rips the panel fully open. βFine!β she snaps. βHold this panel open. Grab the pliers.β
PHASE 6A β THE DISARM β 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 itβs supposed to do. βOkay,β he pants. βOkayβwhat do you needββ
Emβs fingers flyβcutting insulation, separating leads, swearing under her breath as wires shift colors midβmovement.
Blue. Red. Green.
Wrong. Right. None of it stable.
βBlue wire,β she mutters, then snarls as it flickers. βNoβwaitβdamn itββ
βBlue!β Steve shouts, voice cracking. βCut the blue oneβ!β
βOh, because of the Traffic Light Theory?!β she yells back, halfβlaughing, halfβsobbing as sweat drips down her jaw.
βYes!β he screams. βBecause red is stop and green is a trap and blue isβjust cut it!β
PHASE 6A β THE KISS β 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 stormβblue eyesβwide, terrified, alive. Not Captain America even when he had gone through staring death in the eye countless other times. Right now, heβs just not the symbol of hope amidst turmoil. Just a man who refuses to lose another person he didnβt know how to protect
Capsicle returns the fond gaze into Emβs dark, endless brown, flecked with gold. The abyss he always looks too long into when he thinks she isnβt watching.
Itβs too much to handle. So Steve just now stands there with his eyes closed.
Thatβs 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. Itβs 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, quietlyβthat 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 heβs already accepted the outcome and doesnβt 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.
Tβ00:06
βIt was nice knowing you,β 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 doesnβt decide to kiss him.
But she does. Thatβs 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 elseβevery instruction, every protocol, every carefully trained responseβfalls away all at once, and whatβs 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 sheβs afraid he might disappear if she doesnβt 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 imperfectβoff-angle, a little too sudden, born out of impulse rather than intentionβbut it lands with a weight that makes the rest of the room recede. Not vanish. Justβ¦ stop mattering.
Steveβs eyes fly open in shock. For a fraction of a heartbeat, he doesnβt respond. His body hasnβt 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 higherβuncertain at first, then surerβas 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 itβs 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.
Tβ00:03
She breaks away with a sob, turns back on shaking legs, and cuts the blue wire. Nothing happens. For half a secondβnothing. 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 clockβstops.
Tβ00:00
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 secondβnothing.
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 theyβre 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 theyβve stopped moving. The space between them feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with what theyβve just done without permission.
She stares at him. Really looks. As if checking to make sure heβs still there. Still solid. Still breathing.
Her mouth opens once, closes again. When she finally speaks, her voice is not sharp, not controlledβjust honest in a way that surprises her. ββ¦that,β she says, swallowing, βwas an uncomfortable moment.β
"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 heβs not sure whether heβs allowed to feel what heβs feeling. βIβmβ¦ alright,β he says slowly. βI think? Yeah. Iβm actually fine.β
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 everythingβ¦ didnβt. βThis,β she mutters, more to herself than to him, βis not how this was supposed to go.β
He nods. Not emphatically. Just enough. βYeah,β he says quietly. βI didnβt have that on my list either.β
They donβt step back. They donβt address what just happened. They donβt label it. They just stand there, breathing the same air, close enough that retreat would feel like a decisionβand 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 β RESOLUTION OF THEIR FIRST MISSION
They hit the platform edge together. The wouldβbe operative who was housing Voss undergroundβdisguised 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 suitβfreezes 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 whatβs necessary.
She turns back to him. βNext time, try not to break face until weβre done.β
βI didnβtββ
βMhm,β she hums brightly. βYou do this thing with your eyebrows when youβre processing betrayal. Itβs very expressive.β
He opens his mouth, then closes it again.
The station settles. Sirens recede. No explosion. No casualties.
Steve exhales slowly. βYou couldβve told me you wereβ¦ this.β
She arches a brow. βI told you I was efficient.β
βThatβs not what I meant.β
Her gaze lingers on him, assessingβnot flirtatious, not kind. Measuring. βCareful, Captain. Curiosity is how infiltration works.β
fandoms:
β¦ MCU / The Avengers / Winter Soldier reimagined
β¦ 2012β2019 timeline diverged
β¦ espionage, HYDRA, and things going very wrong
ships/pairings:
β¦ bucky barnes Γ reader Γ steve rogers
β¦ complicated loyalties + worse timing
β¦ not a love triangle so much as a war zone















