#mrp2025

An “I am Groot” at the wrong moment.

And a response from Steve Rogers that… wasn’t exactly the right one.

“We have to move this now,” said Steve, pointing to the metal box in front of them. “It’s not safe to leave it here.”

Groot looked at him.

Then he looked at the box.

Then he looked back at Steve.

“I am Groot.”

Steve nodded immediately.

“Exactly, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Silence. Groot tilted his head.

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Steve replied, stepping toward the box. “But we don’t have time to discuss this.”

Groot stepped forward.

Blocking his path.

“I am Groot.”

This time, his tone was different.

Firmer.

More… insistent.

Steve frowned.

“What? No, Groot, this isn’t negotiable.”

Groot blinked.

“I… am… Groot.”

Each word is emphasized.

Separated.

As if that would help.

It didn’t help.

“Groot,” Steve sighed, “I don’t understand what you mean by that.”

That was the problem.

Steve spoke English, other languages—but not Grootian.

Groot spoke… Groot.

And even though Steve thought he understood… he didn’t always.

And Groot… Groot was certain he was explaining himself perfectly.

Groot pointed at the box again.

“I am Groot.”

Steve shook his head.

“No, it’s not dangerous if we move it quickly.”

Groot opened his eyes a little wider.

“I am Groot.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Steve replied, crossing his arms. “If it were unstable, it would have reacted by now.”

Groot tapped his foot lightly.

“I am Groot.”

Steve stared at him.

“You’re not helping.”

Silence.

Groot turned away, walking a couple of steps back.

Not because he was giving up.

But because he was… frustrated.

Very frustrated.

And that wasn’t like him.

He stopped.

He breathed.

(Or the closest thing to breathing he could manage.)

Then he came back.

More determined.

“I am Groot.”

Steve looked at him.

Trying.

Really trying.

“…Are you saying that… we shouldn’t move it?”

Groot lit up a little.

“I am Groot!”

“Because… it might activate?”

Groot nodded quickly.

“I am Groot!”

Steve hesitated.

For the first time.

“But… there are no signs of energy.”

Groot moved closer.

He pointed to a specific spot on the box.

A very specific spot.

“I. Am. Groot.”

Steve followed his gesture.

He crouched down.

He looked more closely.

And then… he saw it.

A small vibration.

Almost imperceptible.

“…oh.”

He was silent for a second.

Then he slowly stood up.

“Okay… you were right.”

Groot crossed his arms.

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve raised his hands. “I know. We shouldn’t have touched it.”

Groot looked at him.

“I. Am. Groot.”

Steve narrowed his eyes.

“What?”

Groot repeated, more slowly.

“I… am… Groot.”

Silence.

Steve sighed.

“…I don’t get that part.”

Groot closed his eyes for a second.

As if he were counting.

Trying not to lose hope.

Because that was the other problem.

It wasn’t just that they spoke different languages.

It was that…

Both of them were convinced that the other should understand them.

Groot opened his eyes. He stepped closer. And this time… he didn’t speak.

He took Steve’s hand, gently guiding it toward the box.

But not to touch it.

To stop it just before.

Then he shook his head.

“I am Groot.”

Steve looked at him.

Then at the box.

Then back at Groot.

And something… clicked.

“You were trying to tell me that… it wasn’t a matter of speed.”

Groot nodded.

“I am Groot.”

“But of… precision.”

Again.

A nod.

“I am Groot.”

Steve exhaled.

A few seconds passed.

Then Steve pointed at the box again.

“So… what do you suggest?”

Groot stood still.

Thinking.

Then he raised a small branch.

He placed it on the spot he had pointed to before.

Very carefully.

As if gauging the reaction.

Nothing.

“I am Groot.”

Steve nodded.

“Deactivate it from there.”

Groot beamed.

“I am Groot!”

“Without moving it.”

“I am Groot!”

Steve smiled a little more.

“Okay… I got that.”

“I am Groot.”

Steve frowned.

“Was that a ‘you’re welcome’ or an ‘obviously’? ”

Groot smiled.

He didn’t answer.

And for some reason…

The place was spacious and abandoned, with rusted metal structures that creaked faintly in the wind. He stopped in the center, his hands relaxed at his sides, though the tension in his posture told a different story. His gaze swept the area out of habit, but he wasn’t looking for external threats.

He knew exactly where the only one that mattered would come from.

It wasn’t long before Brock Rumlow’s footsteps could be heard.

Firm.

Unhurried.

With no intention of hiding.

He entered as he always did; his eyes met Bucky’s immediately.

“I thought you weren’t going to come,” Brock said finally.

Bucky didn’t look away.

“You knew I would.”

Brock nodded slightly, accepting the answer.

“Yes.”

Brock took a few steps closer, stopping at a safe distance.

“So,” he continued, “is this the end, or just another break?”

Bucky exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping for a second before fixing on him again.

“There are no more breaks.”

Brock held his gaze, searching for something.

A hint of doubt.

A crack.

Something that might suggest this could change.

He didn’t find it.

He let out a small, humorless snort.

“I had to try.”

Bucky didn’t react.

The wind swept between the structures, causing the metal to vibrate softly, like a distant echo.

Brock brought a hand to the back of his neck, scratching lightly—an uncharacteristic gesture for him, almost unconscious.

“It’s funny,” he said. “Of all the ways I thought this might end… this one wasn’t on the list.”

Bucky tilted his head ever so slightly.

“No fight?”

Brock smiled wryly.

“Exactly.”

He looked at him again, more directly.

“You and I… we always ended up breaking something.”

Bucky held his gaze. Brock took a few steps around the room, not to circle Bucky but to move to process. His boots echoed against the empty floor, marking an irregular rhythm.

“So you’re leaving,” he said finally.

Not as a question.

As a statement.

Bucky nodded slightly.

“Yes.”

Brock stopped.

“And that’s it?”

Bucky frowned slightly.

“What else do you expect?”

Brock stared at him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “and that in itself was already strange. Something more than just… saying it and that’s it.”

Bucky looked down for a second, processing.

“There’s no easy way to do this,” he said.

Brock exhaled through his nose.

“There never was.”

That was true.

It had always been complicated.

Bucky took a step forward.

“I can’t keep doing the same thing,” he said. “Not like this.”

Brock didn’t back down.

“And what is ‘the same thing’?”

“This.”

Brock clenched his jaw slightly.

“You always knew what you were getting yourself into.”

Bucky nodded.

“Yeah. And that’s why I know I can’t do it anymore.”

“You’re pulling away,” he said.

Bucky didn’t deny it.

“Yeah.”

Brock let out a low, bitter laugh.

“How convenient.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly.

“That’s not it.”

Brock took a step closer now, closing the distance.

“Then tell me what it is.”

Bucky held his gaze without backing down.

“It’s choosing something different.”

Brock ran his tongue over his lower lip, thoughtfully.

“That sounds good in theory,” he said finally. “But it doesn’t always work in practice.”

Bucky didn’t argue with that.

“I know. But I’m going to try anyway.”

Brock watched him in silence.

“So this really is goodbye,” he said after a while.

Bucky took a deep breath.

“Yes.”

Brock nodded slowly.

As if he were bringing closure to something inside.

“All right. I’m not going to chase after you,” he said.

Bucky raised his eyebrows slightly, barely surprised.

Brock noticed.

The light is dim.

Enough to make out shapes, but not details.

A ceiling.

Walls.

A metallic smell in the air.

He sits up carefully.

His body responds.

But his mind… doesn’t.

“Don’t move too fast.”

Steve turns his head.

There he is.

Logan.

“Who are you?” Steve asks.

“That depends,” he finally says. “What do you remember?”

Steve blinks.

He searches.

He finds...

“Nothing useful.”

Logan nods.

Clint Barton stood atop a walkway, his bow drawn and his gaze fixed on the level below.

Below, amid shadows that seemed to shift even when nothing was moving, something was pounding on the doors.

They weren’t coordinated blows.

They were bursts.

Desperate.

Inhuman.

He’d seen enough to understand.

They weren’t dealing with people.

Not entirely.

A few meters behind him, his hands restrained by reinforced handcuffs attached to a metal conduit, was Brock Rumlow. Seated, leaning slightly forward, he watched the same scene intently, though from a much less favorable vantage point.

The contrast was almost absurd.

One free, with a weapon at the ready.

The other was restrained.

“Keep watching if you want,” Rumlow murmured in a low voice, “but that’s not going to stop them.”

Clint didn’t look away.

“I’m waiting for the right moment.”

Rumlow let out a dry laugh.

“Always so precise. The problem is, they aren’t waiting.”

A harder blow echoed against the lower door.

Then another.

And another.

The metal began to buckle.

Clint slowly lowered his bow, assessing the situation.

The facility had been compromised from within. Failed protocols, missing personnel, communications down. The only thing still functioning was the emergency containment system… partially.

And that included those handcuffs.

Rumlow had been captured before the outbreak. A routine transfer that turned into a nightmare in a matter of minutes.

Clint had had the option to leave him there.

To secure the area.

To follow protocol.

But now…

Now he needed him.

“Tell me something,” Clint said finally, without turning around. “How many?”

Rumlow tilted his head, listening.

“More than ten. Maybe fifteen. And that’s just the ones you can hear.”

Clint nodded to himself.

Too many for a direct confrontation in that space.

Too many to rely solely on arrows.

The door gave way a little more, the metal creaking under the pressure.

“I need you to do something for me,” Clint said.

Rumlow raised an eyebrow.

“Really? I thought you liked to be in control.”

Clint turned his face just enough to glance at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t have time for this.”

Rumlow held his gaze for a second. “Then take these off.”

He moved his hands just enough to make the handcuffs clang against the metal.

Clint shook his head.

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Then we’re wasting our time,” Rumlow replied, his tone unchanged.

Another blow.

The door buckled inward.

A hand reached through the gap, trembling, its skin torn.

Then another.

Clint turned his gaze forward.

“Damn it.”

He pulled out a different arrow, one with a mechanism at the tip. He fired it at a side console. The impact created a spark, then a surge that made the lights flicker more intensely.

The system responded… partially.

Secondary hatches closed in other corridors, redirecting the flow.

But it wasn’t enough.

“They’re still coming,” Rumlow said.

“I know.”

Clint descended from the walkway with a nimble movement, landing on the lower level. He approached Rumlow, taking a close look at him for the first time since it all began.

There was blood on his shirt. Not fresh, but not completely dry either.

“You’re hurt.”

Rumlow shrugged.

“Nothing that’ll stop me.”

Clint hesitated for a second.

Then he pulled out a magnetic key.

“It’s not freedom,” he said firmly. “It’s temporary.”

Rumlow didn’t respond. He just held out his hands.

The click of the handcuffs opening was almost insignificant compared to the roar of the door finally giving way.

The creatures burst in.

Their movements were erratic but fast. Their eyes… empty.

Clint stepped back, firing with precision. Two fell. Three.

Rumlow wasted no time. He lunged at the first one to approach, dodging its grasp and striking with brutal directness. They moved as if they’d done this before.

“Cover the left,” Clint said.

“I’m on it,” Rumlow replied, intercepting another with a sharp blow.

The room descended into chaos. Bodies falling, wet sounds, ragged breathing.

But they didn’t stop.

They never stopped.

Clint fired an arrow at the ceiling. A cable unfurled, creating a makeshift barrier that slowed several of them down.

“We can’t stay here.”

Rumlow nodded.

“There’s a containment module at the end of the hallway. Reinforced doors.”

Clint looked at him.

“And how do you know that?”

Rumlow didn’t stop.

“Because I helped design it.”

A second of silence amid the chaos.

Then they both ran.

The hallway was narrow and dimly lit. Behind them, the footsteps followed, constant, relentless.

They reached the door.

Rumlow fumbled with the control panel, his hands moving quickly.

“Let’s go.”

They went inside.

The door slammed shut with a heavy thud.

Silence.

For the first time in hours.

Clint leaned his back against the wall, taking a deep breath.

Rumlow slumped to the floor, running a hand over his face.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Clint broke the silence.

“This isn’t over.”

Rumlow let out a low laugh.

“No. But at least we’re still alive.”

Clint looked at him.

“And now we’re locked in.”

Rumlow looked up, a spark of something almost amused in his eyes.

“Confined,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Clint shook his head, but a soft exhalation—which could have been a laugh—escaped him.

Outside, the pounding began again.

Louder.

More insistent.

Time was running out.

But for now…

Steve Rogers stood in front of the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass in irregular lines. His reflection distorted with every movement of the water, as if not even his own image could hold steady.

He held the file in his hand.

Crumpled at the edges from the force with which he’d been clutching it.

He hadn’t opened it again.

He didn’t need to.

He already knew what it said.

He already knew what it meant.

The door swung open without warning.

“You’re getting wet without even being outside.”

Brock Rumlow’s voice filled the room.

Steve didn’t turn around.

“No.”

“Of course you are.”

Brock shut the door with his foot, letting the sharp thud announce his presence.

“That kind of look…” he continued, stepping closer, “always means the same thing.”

Steve clenched his jaw.

“I don’t need an analysis.”

“No, but you’re getting one.”

Silence.

Brock stood beside him, looking out the window too.

“What is it?”

Steve hesitated.

A split second.

Long enough for Brock to notice.

“It’s serious.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re overthinking it?”

“Yes.”

Brock let out a small laugh.

“Then it’s definitely serious.”

Steve finally turned around.

He handed him the file.

Brock took it without haste, opening it with an uncomfortable familiarity.

His eyes scanned the pages quickly.

Data.

Locations.

Targets.

Estimated collateral damage.

And then, he paused.

A slight raise of an eyebrow.

“Wow.”

He closed the file with a soft thud.

“Yeah… this is ugly.”

Steve crossed his arms.

“If we act, civilians die.”

“And if you don’t act?”

“The target moves.”

“And does something worse.”

Steve didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Brock tilted his head.

“So, we’re in a classic scenario.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He tapped the file lightly.

“Whatever you do… You lose.”

“There has to be another option,” Steve said finally.

Brock looked at him.

“Sure.”

“What is it?”

“Accepting that there isn’t one.”

The answer was immediate.

Cutting.

Steve shook his head.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“It works exactly that way.”

Brock took a step closer.

“The world isn’t clean, Rogers.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“But you act like it is.”

Steve held his gaze.

“I act as if it could be better.”

“And that’s what gets you into these kinds of situations.”

A pause.

“Because you want to save everyone.”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Brock let out a brief laugh.

Without humor.

“There’s no such thing as ‘right’ here.”

“Of course there is.”

“Not on this page.”

He held up the file.

“There are only consequences here.”

Steve clenched his fists.

“Then we choose the lesser one.”

“And you decide which one that is?”

“Someone has to.”

“Yes.”

Brock took a step back, studying him more closely.

“And that someone is you.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was an accusation.

Steve didn’t defend himself.

Because he couldn’t.

Because deep down… it was true.

“If we attack,” Steve said, “innocents die.”

“Yes.”

“If we don’t attack, the target escapes and could cause something worse.”

“That’s true, too.”

“Then tell me,” Steve looked him straight in the eye, “what would you do?”

Brock held his gaze.

One second.

Two.

“I attack.”

The answer was immediate.

Without a doubt.

“Without thinking.”

Steve frowned.

“Of course I’d think about it.”

“Not enough to stop me.”

He stepped closer again.

“Because I understand something you’re still trying to avoid.”

“What is it?”

“That sometimes there’s no way to win.”

“So, you just… choose?”

“Yes.”

“And you live with that?”

Brock shrugged.

“Or you ignore it.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I know.

“If you do, Brock continued, it’s going to haunt you.

“I know.

“And if you don’t…

“It will too.

Brock nodded.

“Exactly.

He pointed to the space between them.

“There you are.

Trapped.

Steve closed his eyes for a second.

The rain kept falling.

Constant.

Unrelenting.

“I don’t want to choose who lives and who dies.”

“No one does.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with it.”

Brock let out a small laugh.

“Oh, I do.”

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

“Because I don’t stop.”

Steve opened his eyes.

“I do.”

“And that makes you better.”

A pause.

“But it also makes you slower.”

“And sometimes,” Brock added, “slowness kills more people.”

The words hung in the air.

Hard to ignore.

Steve looked at the file again.

Then at the window.

Then at Brock.

“If I do this…”

“Yes.”

“There’s no turning back.”

“There never is.”

“And if I don’t…”

“Neither.”

Silence.

The rain.

Steve took a deep breath.

“I hate this.”

Brock nodded.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

He crossed his arms.

“If one day you stop caring… then we really have a problem.”

Steve exhaled slowly.

He looked at the file one last time.

And made a decision.

“I’m going to give the order.”

Brock watched him.

Assessing.

“Yeah… that’s what I thought.”

Steve didn’t smile.

There was nothing to celebrate.

“And I’m going to take the heat for this.”

“I thought so too.”

There was one last silence.

“Hey, Rogers,” Brock said before turning toward the door.

Steve looked up.

“What?”

Brock glanced at him over his shoulder.

“Welcome to the point where no matter what you do…”

A brief pause.

“You’re doomed either way.”

And he walked out.

The door closed.

The rain kept falling.

And Steve Rogers stood there…

knowing that whatever he chose…