About You

What happened in Austria was only the beginning of a war campaign between HYDRA and Captain America and his Howling Commandos. The super soldier became the organization's greatest enemy as he attacked weapons factories, until now only the one in Marseille, France, and one near Brussels, Belgium. One by one, they were blown to bits, causing exorbitant monetary losses that delayed the final construction of the Valkyrie.

Red Skull was furious every day since then; Ophelia was sure she had never seen him smile again. Instead, her office vibrated with Vivaldi playing until his violin strings snapped or Richard Wagner tormenting them with his somber, dirge-filled opera.

She might as well start counting the times she'd called everyone "useless" and she'd set a new record. It seemed like her favorite word, every time Rogers emerged victorious again while HYDRA's triumphs translated into escaping, extracting the largest number of parts with a varied route to the headquarters where the decision to assemble the ship had been made, and recovering relics.

But even that job wasn't easy. There was always blood involved, and although Ophelia was used to shedding it, she was also aware that her body was as vulnerable as any human's. She could better resist toxins and contact with poisons thanks to emeraldine, a synthetic protein that had been injected into her bloodstream six years ago, after graduating from Project Medusa.

And yet, when that bullet hit her shoulder on the island in the Danish Strait, it was as if all the air had been knocked out of her lungs. The pain was sharp and searing, as if a hot iron had pierced her flesh and embedded itself deeply, but even with the tremors that had racked her legs, she got back to her feet, leaving her hiding place to return fire and retrieve the Runestone.

Schmidt had given orders via sonogram to retreat to the fortress in Greece where he was located; he'd lost another castle and an artifact, which, like the Tesseract, had the ability to produce energy, only it was capable of generating electrical discharges. Her leader's idea was to blow up Captain America, who was still inside, and yet Ophelia still sought to ingratiate herself with her mentor.

She had to show him that even amid the growing ineptitude of his troops, she was still his best agent.

"Sarkissian," a voice muttered harshly behind her. Ophelia had discovered that she wasn't alone in the castle tower, but that Captain America was still there, trying to stop the explosion by cutting the cables overloading the generator powered by the Runestone. Even so, the blast was certain; she had just bought herself time. "What are you doing?"

"Taking something that's mine," she tried to say casually, although a hiss escaped her teeth as she ripped out the piece of rock that seemed to pulse in her hands as if it had a will of its own. It was carved with Viking runes and the serpent Jörmungandr succumbing to Thor's power.

Zemo theorized that the reference to lightning was the reason why ancient times could produce that energy, like an unwritten title. Red Skull, on the other hand, was certain that Thor had fragmented a portion of his power and stored it on Earth to use in the coming of Ragnarök, the apocalypse of Asgard.

Ophelia believed that if they didn't find a better way to destroy the super soldier, he would bring about his own hell. And she would rain down fire before allowing the leaders of that organization to be burned, because otherwise, where would she go? They had taken her life of destitution, giving her a purpose and a home.

She lived, bled, and would die for HYDRA.

"Leave it now," Rogers demanded, watching the green-haired woman wrap her in a bloody cloth before stuffing the rune into the pouch slung over her back. "You can't take it."

His tone grew tense as he approached her. The green-haired woman gave him a sly, mocking smile and moved carefully, trying to circle the generator that kept them a few meters away. Then she continued backward toward the tower window, the soldier following her like a hawk.

"And you'll stop me, Captain?" she asked softly, pouting her lips as she lowered her trench coat enough for him to see the red scraps of cloth she'd pulled from one of the black banners in her haste to stop the bleeding. But really, her tourniquet wasn't helping much. "Are you going to attack a wounded, defenseless woman?"

The blond snorted, adjusting his shield with narrowed eyes. "You've never been defenseless."

"We can agree on that," she hissed before a pang and the stinging residue of lacerated flesh made her lean back against the wall behind her. She hated the way she saw a trace of unease in the American's blue orbs, one that grew clearer when he lowered his shield and carefully extended his hand without touching her, only as a waiting signal.

As if you could hurt me, Ophelia thought warily as she gritted her teeth, for he wasn't supposed to be kind to her. They had tried to kill him at least nine times, and if the roles were reversed, he wouldn't hesitate to deliver a coup de grâce. How else do you deal with threats if not by eliminating them?

They both represented dangers to each other's worlds.

"You're losing too much blood," Rogers said, and Ophelia wanted to throw a couple of sly comments at him, but he didn't stop. "If you give yourself up... We have medical equipment."

That insinuation was worse than any insult. She remembered well what Schmidt thought of Captain America after watching his consecutive displays of action on film or on the battlefield from a distance.

"Rogers mistakes overprotection of the weak for altruism," she had said contemptuously after noticing that the American not only helped his own troops by fighting side by side with them, but also came to the aid of their enemies, saving HYDRA soldiers from accidents or explosions.

She wasn't weak. Strength, ambition, determination, and aggression: that was what made her Madame Hydra.

"I'd rather spill every last drop on this filthy floor than accept your meager mercy," the green-haired woman growled with renewed strength as she dropped a smoke grenade. But when she kicked it toward him, Rogers thought it was an explosive grenade, so he tried to back away with his shield behind his back. "Not in this lifetime, Captain. Hail HYDRA!"

When the super soldier realized he'd been tricked and only thick gray smoke covered the tower, he looked out the window, searching for any trace of the Hungarian woman. He only saw a green blur moving away with a parachute until she disappeared into the clouds.

The castle's explosion had shaken the island, causing the waters to become rougher and rocks to fall from the cliffs, making it difficult for Ophelia to escape in one of the Fieser Dorschs that had been left behind. The interior of the cockpit was a bloody, sticky mess, with a metallic smell that made her nauseous more than once.

She had to come up for air in the middle of the Atlantic, but tired as she was, she knew she needed to rest. So she contacted Zemo, who had been in Belfast after his sudden escape from York following his exposure to MI6 due to leaked letters between him and his brother Heinrich.

Ophelia couldn't have wished for a better time to see him again than when she was about to faint from lack of blood, but Franz took care of her, healing her as best he could and securing an extraction route through a call with the Kraken.

Red Skull must have known she was alive at that point, but he didn't show any signs of wanting to see her until two weeks later, when he sent a plane to the Austrian facility where Werner Reinhardt had been housing them. So as their flights drew closer to the island of Crete, a knot of anxiety grew in her stomach at the thought of being punished for disobeying orders.

Yes, she had retrieved the Runestone for future experimentation, but it nearly killed her. A carelessness that could be considered its own consequence, but Madame Hydra knew Schmidt wouldn't be so forgiving.

"Zola's about to have a nervous breakdown," Zemo commented, entering Ophelia's room, finding the green-haired woman cleaning the bullet wound and changing her bandages, her jaw clenched due to the flashes of pain that still plagued her whenever she touched the damaged skin. "I wish I could laugh, but... We lost the base in Czechoslovakia too."

"At least it was one of the lowest-production ones," Ophelia muttered bitterly, her brow furrowing again as she tried to adjust the bandages on her right shoulder.

Every movement as she settled into the chair was a stinging reminder of her humanity, that weakness she often tried to ignore. The burning pain on her shoulder made her bite the inside of her cheek to keep from cursing, but her eyes met Zemo's, which seemed to analyze her beyond the surface.

"Yeah... it hasn't even been a month since Denmark," she snorted ironically. Ophelia thought she'd identified when Franz was a hopeless cynic, but this time there was anguish in his voice. "Does Captain America not sleep? Is it like a kind of permanent insomnia?"

"He's obsessed with us," Ophelia opined, looking at the Runestone on the table. She hadn't handed it over yet, but neither Zola nor Schmidt had asked for it. "He wants to destroy us, so he's hunting us."

The blond man nodded with a curved lip and a nod. "And when do you plan to return that shot?"

"The next time I see him."

She didn't know who had shot her, but she doubted it was a stray bullet. One thing was certain: it must have been a sniper, given the position of the bullet, since her back was to a stained-glass window where only her silhouette could be seen.

"Ugh, damn it," she muttered as a few strands of her hair came loose from the braid she'd tried to make to keep it from getting tangled in the healing. She had an impulse to cut him off, so she took a deep breath and grimaced, ready to try again, when Zemo approached.

"Why don't you let me do it and avoid silent suffering, Sarkissian?"

"I can do it myself," Ophelia growled through gritted teeth, but the blond man approached with his arms crossed, leaning toward her anyway.

"Yes, I know. In fact, you're better at it than I am," Zemo admitted, but he could see the tired image she refused to see or accept. Her hunched shoulders, her pale skin with shadows under her eyes that formed pronounced dark circles. Her heavy eyelids, and the irritated red of her eyes dulled any glimmer of daring that used to burn in her like a torch.

Not to mention her irritated mood and her near-muteness these past few days.

Ophelia finally relented with a long sigh, so Franz settled back against the table, leaning on his hip as he remained standing, carefully wrapping the bandages around her injured shoulder. He didn't want to upset her and earn a flurry of curses in Hungarian or German.

"Why were you still in Britain, Zemo?" Ophelia asked him in a slow, sleepy tone after a few minutes of peaceful silence.

"You know, following leads and clues. My job," he shrugged. He continued, believing it was a good time to share his progress. "I think I know where the Serpent Crown is."

Ophelia looked at him with interest, turning and placing a hand over his to stop him. "Where?"

"Greenland," he murmured with a small smile and cut off the excess bandage to throw it away. "Although like I said... It's a bit of a guess. I need to go there and look for more skeletons." It's not that simple when they're on the ice.

"Wait, skeletons? And how did it get to Greenland?" Ophelia felt lost, so she leaned her elbows on the table and shook her head, looking at Zemo for an explanation. "I thought the Queen of Norway died in East Anglia."

"Yes, in Norwich, where Oswald the Just took his crown and then died about fifty years later in a fire inside his own castle." She smiled broadly with a cynicism that almost whitened her teeth. "More tragedies."

The green-haired woman raised one of her eyebrows, but she wasn't surprised. She didn't believe in such things; she just took them as superstitions created to keep others away from the temptations of power. "Cursed, isn't it?"

The Sokovian nodded slowly and took the thin letter opener from the desk. It was silver, and even had a finish on the base in the shape of a skull with six tentacles.

"Sometimes we shouldn't play with mystical things, Sarkissian."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Ophelia explained, standing with her hand on her chin, her expression determined, knowing she wouldn't stop searching until she found her. Not when they could be so close. "Why Greenland?"

The blond man snorted, rubbing his eyes and yawning. The exhaustion of the last few days was also catching up with him. "It turns out the one who burned King Oswald's castle was a Viking woman. Brynja "The Bear," you can guess why they called her that."

"Berserker?"

"Yeah, and an adventurer, she crossed seas fleeing the Saxons, but it's only said she went to happy lands where there were the two things she loved: white bears and snow." He stared at her with a sly smile, noticing that she looked a little livelier and more vivid than she had been hours ago. She certainly suited her duties away from the front lines better. "It's not that hard to draw conclusions. So, I guess... They buried her with her."

Madame Hydra snorted with a tentative smile, devoid of any malice. "As I said, grave robber."

He was, but Zemo would never accept it.

"Heinrich prefers to say: Collector of misplaced history, when they ask him about me," she commented with a crooked grimace that tried to contain a laugh as she ran her thumb over her lips.

Ophelia thought it was such a ridiculous euphemism for a man willing to cross oceans and dig beneath mountains of ice while his archaeological community marginalized him and treated him as a disgrace despite his brilliance. And yet, despite the label, he carried on with the same passion as the first time he'd been in college. Perhaps because he believed in it. Perhaps because he had nothing else.

She had often thought his sentimentality about antiquities was ridiculous, and yet, after more than a year of working closely with him, united by a shared interest that had become yet another of their obsessions, she could see that it was his last bastion. He lived to rescue history lost, just as she had to HYDRA, as a way to fight his own loneliness in a world that had turned its back on him.

And... oh, yes, there was still that topic, which erased any hint of a smile from Ophelia.

"And at least it was worth it to almost get caught for those stupid letters?" he asked quietly, though his tone was infused with the necessary seriousness.

"Yes, it was," Franz assured him with a slight smile, every feature of his face relaxing. "I'll be an uncle again. My brother was so happy that it would be a boy he could pass on the title of baron to, so he wanted to warn me."

"...so happy it would be a boy..." the phrase echoed in Ophelia's head like a drum being struck with a shrill force. A piece of flesh between the legs still determined a person's worth in what humans called an advanced civilization. Little things like that made her believe in the founding principles of HYDRA: a new world order under fair control for the survivors.

She clicked her tongue and wrinkled her nose in displeasure. "Every little thing I learn about your brother makes me like him less, and I thought you didn't either."

"I never said that. Heinrich and I have... very marked differences," she acknowledged, raising her eyebrows as she looked at her hands. There was a certain conflict in her eyes where disappointment and frustration mingled, creating a deep blue. "But he's still my brother. If there's one thing you can't run away from, it's family."

Franz leaned toward her, and though his movements were careful, Ophelia couldn't help but notice the fleeting touch of his fingers against her skin. There was something eerily human about the way his blue eyes studied her, almost as if he were trying to understand what lay behind his iron facade.

"Then I'm lucky," Ophelia reflected, her gaze darkening as the words came out with a deliberate edge. "They're all dead."

Zemo didn't reply. His silence held only the weight of the truth they shared: family always leaves scars, even when it's not named as such.

The sound of boots echoed in the hallway before the door opened with a metallic screech. Ophelia looked up, still seated by the table where the Runestone rested, wrapped in a cloth. Zemo, standing beside her, was the first to react.

"Obergruppenführer," he greeted respectfully to the imposing figure who barely glanced at him, bowing his head slightly before stepping back. He knew when his presence was no longer needed, even if the Red Skull didn't explicitly say so. Without waiting for permission, Franz withdrew with calculated movements, closing the door behind him and leaving an oppressive void in the air.

Schmidt moved slowly toward the table, his eyes fixed on the Runestone as if he could unravel the secret to absorbing the power of thunder from its properties. His lips curved into something that could be interpreted as a smile as he took it in his hands, but on his rigid, stern face, it looked more like a gesture of restrained triumph.

"You've done a good job, Ophelia. More than expected considering how poorly we got through Denmark," he said finally, his grave tone resonating in the small room. He set the Runestone down and sat across from her, resting his gloved hands on the table. Recovering this artifact is a victory... but not enough. Relics have their place, yes, but they won't defeat that American in a clown suit.

Ophelia nodded stiffly, the pain in her shoulder still throbbing, but overshadowed by Schmidt's commanding presence. There was something about his gaze that made her feel like a little girl again, seeking approval even when she knew it would never be enough.

"We need to fight fist to fist, my dear Ophelia," he continued, pausing to let his words sink in. "We need super soldiers."

The green-haired woman's shoulders tensed at the statement hanging in the air; it was charged with an unquestionable certainty that could even be mistaken for despair. For months ago, the Red Skull had been reluctant to create more men who could match him after the first attack, reflecting the resounding fear that brief confrontation with Steve Rogers had instilled in him.

Schmidt studied her for a moment before leaning forward, his shadow lengthening across the table. "Dr. Zola has perfected the HYDRA Super Soldier Serum. It's now safe. And... I've decided that you will be the first to take it."

Ophelia felt her breath catch in her throat for a second. She couldn't stop a flicker of doubt from crossing her mind as she stared at how the serum had deformed Schmidt's face, but she knew that any sign of resistance would be seen as betrayal and cowardice. The German noticed the slight flicker in her eyes, the hint of hesitation, and his tone hardened just enough to silence any protests.

"It's safe," he stated flatly, leaving no room for questioning. His stance wasn't conciliatory or reassuring; it was a veiled command behind calculated words. "I chose you because I know your worth, Ophelia. You're the only one I can trust with power like this." No one else is at your level.

The words fell upon her like a weight, a mixture of praise and manipulation she knew all too well. She had been molded to respond to his approval, to seek it even when it was elusive, and now she couldn't help but feel that her value as a HYDRA agent depended on accepting what Schmidt offered her.

"The human being should become the most powerful weapon to avoid being used by the enemy," he concluded, his tone laden with a cold logic that only reinforced the inevitability of his decision.

The Hungarian woman took a deep breath, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table. She had no choice, she knew. Schmidt had given her a purpose when she had none, had offered her a place in the world when she was lost. If this was what was expected of her, it was time to repay her debt.

"I will," she finally replied, her voice barely steady, unlike the small, treacherous tear that trickled down her watery eyes from the burning of exhaustion mixed with emotional turmoil. She instinctively tried to wipe it away with the back of her hand, but before she could finish, Schmidt leaned toward her.

With a slow, almost calculated movement, he brushed away the remaining tear with a gesture as subtle as it was chilling, his glove brushing her skin for only an instant. He said nothing as he did so, but the intensity of his gaze spoke louder than any words. A simple act that wasn't a consolation, but something more ambiguous and sinister. A sign that even her pain belonged to him.

Schmidt stood then, adjusting his gloves as he turned toward the door.

"Rest," he said, without turning to look at her. "You'll have to be prepared for what's coming."

The sound of the door closing left Ophelia alone in the room, a weight that seemed to crush her. The dampness of Schmidt's touch still lingered on her skin, and with it, the certainty that whatever semblance of humanity remained in him had been molded into the pursuit of absolute dominance. But what troubled her most was that, at that moment, she didn't know whether to feel anger or gratitude.

Was it even normal to feel the need to run away, scream and cry into a pillow? Desperation was strange; it ate you alive.

Ophelia was already in her bed when the door creaked open again. This time, Arnim Zola entered, pushing a metal cart that clanged against the bedroom floor. On it rested two vials filled with the familiar green liquid and a needle that looked more like an instrument of torture than a medical tool. She swallowed and considered that it might well be a salvation against rabies or a cure for her humanity.

Red Skull stood beside the bed, his mask removed from his face, scarred by the original serum. That image was enough to remind her of the price she could pay for what she was about to do, but Schmidt didn't allow her to wander.

"It's time, Ophelia," he said, his tone grave and authoritative. The dim light illuminating the room made his expression almost supernatural. "You will be the first to experience this breakthrough. HYDRA trusts you, I do."

Ophelia nodded slowly, lying back on the bed with tense movements as Zola prepared the serum. Her heart was beating wildly, and for the first time in years, she felt such intense fear that she broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of the change she couldn't reverse. Red Skull watched her with a steady gaze, as if he could read her every thought, and the way his eyes narrowed was a warning: You can't turn back.

Zola approached with the needle and leaned toward her abdomen, lifting the white shirt she'd untucked from her baggy pants.

"This will be intense," he warned in a dry tone that sounded more like a documentary statement than a forgiving warning. Without waiting, he inserted the needle into her skin, releasing the contents of the first vial.

The pain was immediate, a deep burning that spread like liquid poison throughout her body. Ophelia gasped and writhed sharply, her back arching as her muscles began to react violently. There was barely time to catch her breath when Zola injected the second vial, intensifying the agony.

"Hold on!" ordered the Red Skull, taking her wrists to keep her from moving too much. His grip was firm, almost crushing, but necessary. The room echoed with Ophelia's screams as her bones seemed to break and rebuild at the same time.

"Herr Schmidt, we should stop," Zola suggested nervously, taking a step back when Ophelia let out another piercing scream. "Her body might collapse..."

"No," Schmidt interrupted, his voice sharp and determined. "She'll make it, and I want to be here to see the change."

The screams slowly ceased, replaced by ragged gasps. Ophelia's body lay still, her hair drenched with sweat and her hands trembling in Schmidt's firm grip. Zola watched in silence, his gaze divided between fascination and fear, like a sculptor admiring his work.

"There it is," Red Skull murmured, leaning toward her as Ophelia's eyelids began to open. Her eyes, once pale blue, now glowed a deep green that seemed to radiate the same venom that seemed etched on her lips. "Zola, this is the birth of a new race."

Madame Hydra breathed deeply, her chest rising and falling as she processed what had happened. Schmidt released her wrists, satisfied. His expression was triumphant, as if she were a masterpiece just perfected.

"You've done it," he said simply, his tone heavy with pride as he placed his hand on her hair with an indulgent touch. "Now, you are like me... A being called by the gods to join their might."

Ophelia didn't respond immediately, but she knew that not only had she passed the test, but she was now another weapon in HYDRA's arsenal, the most lethal, and with that title came the task of never resting. Although, to tell the truth, she felt she had enough energy to fight a hundred wars.