I wrote a little Winterbaron Fanfiction that I think I'll publish on Ao3, I have to change a few things, but the bulk of it is written, but I'm very undecided whether to publish it or not.
In the meantime, here I post the introductory chapter. It would be the movie Thunderbolts* with the addition of Zemo, the story I wrote follows the same events of the movie, but from Zemo's pov and his role.
Let me know if you like it so I can decide whether to publish it or not on Ao3, also my native language is not English, so let me know if there are any errors.
Thanks for your attention❤️
Dawn in Washington D.C. had a cold and impersonal punctuality—the same that marked Herman Sinner’s days.
5:00 AM: the alarm clock, a discreet trill that allowed no argument. His body, trained to a rigid obedience that transcended the identity of the moment, moved with automatic precision. An hour of running in the park, the morning's damp air lashing a face made anonymous by a cap and the determination not to meet anyone’s gaze. Then, the workout: push-ups, pull-ups, every muscle strained to the limit—a ritual to exorcise demons, or perhaps just to exhaust the body enough to silence the mind for a few hours.
Breakfast in a nameless coffee shop below his apartment—black coffee, a lukewarm toast, consumed while absentmindedly reading the day’s news, more out of habit than true interest. A cold shower, then the grey suit, the sober tie. Herman Sinner’s armor: consultant and analyst. From seven in the morning to seven in the evening, his mind—the mind of Zemo—delved into reports, analyzed data, formulated silent strategies on behalf of a man now imprisoned: Thaddeus Ross. It was meticulous work, almost reassuring in its predictability.
But then came the evening. And with it, the mask would fall.
Returning home to an apartment as bare and impersonal as the life he led. On better evenings, a bit of grocery shopping, the rustle of plastic bags breaking an otherwise oppressive silence. On worse ones, takeout food whose bland taste seemed to reflect the emptiness opening up inside him. It was in those moments that Hermann Sinner faded and Helmut Zemo emerged, in all his searing loneliness.
A loneliness sharpened by the news that had arrived a couple of months earlier, like a punch to the gut: Oeznik, his loyal butler, the man who had been almost a second father to him, was dead. A stroke. The last fragile remnant of his former life—the one before Sokovia, the one where there was still a name, a family, a future—had crumbled, leaving him even more exposed in the face of his grief.
Alcohol, at times, became a treacherous companion. And with it, the images. His wife, his son, their bodies pulled from the rubble, the dust of Sokovia that he could still feel on his skin, in his eyes. And then Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the barrel of a gun pressed to his forehead. A flash of hope, then: the end. The desperate wish that the finger would pull the trigger, that it would all end—the unbearable loneliness, the void consuming his heart. And then the hatred, deep and wordless, when Barnes had lowered the weapon, sentencing him to live.
On those nights, standing by the window on the top floor, the cold Washington wind whipped across his face, carrying with it the call of the void below. The idea of letting himself fall, of ending it all. Or the image of a gun pressed to his temple, the metallic taste of the barrel in his mouth. A click. Silence.
The only thing that anchored him to reality, that gave a semblance of purpose to his emptied existence, was the mission. The one Thaddeus Ross had offered him, pulling him out of the Raft. A gesture of gratitude toward the aging general for that unexpected offer? Or just the soldier’s habit, the imprint of Colonel Zemo—the inability to leave a task unfinished, even when the heart longed for nothing but stillness?
Maybe both. Or maybe neither. Maybe it was just a way to fill the days, one at a time, waiting for something that would break the monotony of pain. Or the end.
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