THE ALTAR
No sooner had the door swung open than the infiltrators were hit with a wave of heat. The stuffy, claustrophobic conditions of Hell’s Heaven was almost enough to make a man forget he was underground, but the vast cave they stepped into now reminded them of that fact.
The cavern was circular, perhaps fifty metres in diameter. Around the room, the ceiling was supported by vast stone pillars stretching hundreds of feet high. Each pillar was adorned with the haunting visage of a monster from ancient myth. Torches were set in them - the old kind, wooden sticks ending with burning cloth. The flickering shadows twisted the monsters’ faces into unspeakable shapes.
In the centre of the room was a jagged lump of stone. When Clint Barton had come to rescue the Winter Soldier from his captivity, this had been an elegantly-carved altar, the patterns dancing up the side almost Hellenic, the smooth top seven feet in length - perfect for an unknowing victim to be strapped down. Now it was a ruin. If the Soldier squinted, he could still make out stains of black blood adorning an all-too-familiar pattern of grooves
Carved from the back wall was a vast archway, so high the Soldier had to crane his neck to see the top. Hundreds of symbols had been scratched into it. The Soldier recognised characters from every language he knew. The air around it seemed to shimmer, as though it were radiating immense heat, covering the arch with a lustrous veil. But all these were nothing compared to the eye that gazed through.
It was feline, its pupil a thin slit, yet the eye was so huge that the Soldier could have stepped through the slit with no issue. The iris was a purple so deep it was almost beautiful, richer than the darkest amethyst. Yet there was an intelligence to that eye, a deep and terrible curiosity that felt like it was going to tear his body in twain.
Welcome home, James.
Psylocke! the Soldier called out in his mind, and she was there.
What do you want with me? he asked.
I told you. You will be my champion. Together, we shall vanquish all in our path.
Oh yeah? Were Clint and Steve “in my path”, too, back at Wakanda?
Yes. They want to stop you from becoming who you could truly be, with the powers I can give you.
And what’s that?
Something greater than the Winter Soldier you were. Greater than the Winter Soldier you are now.
If that means leaving my friends behind, I don’t want it.
But you do, deep down. You need never fail Steve again. Would you like that, James?
It was working. The Soldier knew it, the thing knew it.
Okay. Enough talk. He drew his sidearm. Next to him, steel whispered on leather as Psylocke’s ōdachi’ slipped from its sheath. You can tell me the rest in hell one day.
Still you persist in this folly. The eye shifted, ever so slightly, behind the veil.I suppose you’ll need to be–
An image: a boxer, beaten, bleeding.
-’shown who is boss.’
A deafening crack echoed from the altar. A fissure drove upwards along its front, bisecting the stone like the halves of a brain. The Soldier felt his grip on his sidearm tightening. He looked at Psylocke, fighting the urge to tremble. She gazed back, meeting his eyes - and, to his utter bewilderment, she smiled. It was a calm smile. Confident, natural. Utterly without fear. And in the face of it, the Soldier felt his own fear disappearing. “Ready?” she asked.
“Let’s do it,” he replied.
The crack widened, running in a fevered line until it split the altar like an egg. Hands pushed through the crack - one, two, five, ten. They pulled at the edges, widening it, splitting, tearing, until the halves fell away. Figures began to climb out of the ground where the altar had stood. They were viscous, as if a humanlike shape had been carved out of hot wax - but the wax must have been black as night, for so were these horrendous creatures. They seemed to run and reform before the Soldier’s very eyes, yet they were most certainly human in appearance.
But they were not just any human. As they emerged, their outlines became all too familiar. Dismayed recognition blazed in the Soldier’s brain as the first one became fully visible. Patterns were visible on its torso, though the lines were shifting and running like wet ink; a star and stripes. Its head was partly covered by a helmet. And though it was bare-handed, the Soldier knew that if it were any closer to the real deal, it would be carrying a shield.
The shape lunged towards him. The Soldier’s reflexes screamed at him to lift his arm and fire, but his hand seemed to be made of lead. It was Steve. He couldn’t shoot Steve.
It’s not. It’s not him, it’s just trying to scare me-
It was a few paces ahead of him now. It was clumsy, barely keeping its footing, but it was surging towards him like an animal bent on his flesh. Psylocke still hadn’t moved. The smile had vanished. Her eyes were fixed on him, watching, waiting.
The creature bowled into him, and the Soldier felt the air leave his lungs. Fight!, he felt his brain screaming, but his brain was tearing itself in two, the thing was grabbing at him while his hands moved on their own, slapping it away, and its features were bubbling like tar and it wasn’t him, it wasn’t, but it was, and now its hands were closing around his throat–
You failed me, Buck, came the voice in his head, Steve’s voice, infinitely sad, and suddenly his hand was moving because it wasn’t Steve, Steve would never say that, never hurt him, and he jammed his sidearm under the thing’s jaw and squeezed the trigger three times, and the ringing in his ear was nothing compared to the sight of black oil jettisoning out the back of its skull, and Psylocke was pulling him to his feet, and she was smiling again.
“Did I pass?” the Soldier asked, not really expecting an answer. She didn’t give him one. They both knew the answer.
More of the creatures had crawled out now. He saw one wearing Hawkeye’s features, and behind it was a Natalia. Two more Captain Americas were climbing out of the ground following them, their outlines running and setting with every second. The Soldier aimed, and fired two more shots, and they fell with a wet smack, unidentifiable fluids seeping from the open wounds. Psylocke was duelling the other two beside them; she stepped out of the way of a clumsy punch from the fake Hawkeye, and swung her blade upwards in counter-strike, cleanly severing the limb at the shoulder. She pivoted on her heel as the Natalia made a grab for her, and brought her ōdachi around in a brutal arc that sliced cleanly through its neck. “Ichi,” she muttered to herself, as body and head hit the floor with a sound like a wet sponge. The Hawkeye made an ungainly swipe at Psylocke, trying to hook some fingers in her clothing. She stepped back lightly, and as he stumbled at her feet, she drove her blade through the back of his neck. “Ni,” she finished.
The Soldier saw one wearing the face of Sam Wilson, the Falcon. Another was parodying T’Challa, the emperor of Wakanda. Another Captain America stood behind them. He put a bullet through both of their right eyes. Their glistening black bodies fell onto the stone, and dissolved into an oily fluid. The Captain surged forward eagerly, but he had barely taken one more step when a shuriken sprouted from his temple, translucent and shimmering pink. “Shi,” Psylocke offered.
Give in, James,came the voice. Your stubbornness is admirable - but what does this accomplish?
We’re killing you, that’s what it accomplishes.
The Soldier opened a new window in a T’Challa’s head, and blasted a Hawkeye’s forehead wide open, revelling in the way they melted as they hit the ground. You are NOT my friends, he told them in his mind. You’re just sick copies. “Roku!” Psylocke exclaimed to one side, her sword a gleaming whirlwind of black and silver.
He pulled the trigger again, and was met with a dull click. Shit. Three more of the shapes were bearing down on him. He didn’t have time to reload. He just dropped his pistol and drew his knife in his right hand. The closest - he didn’t bother to process its face - lunged for him, and he swung his fist upwards in an uppercut that ripped its head back on its neck. He elbowed the second, and as it fell back, he slammed his knife hilt-deep into the third’s throat. With a grunt of exertion, he punched the knife’s hilt with his vibranium hand, driving it out the other side and soaking his arm in black liquid, its neck left a ruined mess. Barely had the second one begun to rise when he pounced on it, and buried his knife in its eye with a wet squelch. He bounced back to his feet, kicked his sidearm back into his hand, and slammed in a fresh magazine.
An image entered his mind: A pawn, moving on a chessboard.
An image: The flow of the river breaking down a dam.
Get OUT of my head!
You cannot fight me, James.
Shut UP!
Four more had grouped up, and charged him now. The Soldier put down two at range, put a round in the knee of the third, and missed the fourth. C’mon. He took a breath, trying to steady his nerves - the adrenaline was singing in his veins, and he could feel his hands trembling - and blew it to kingdom come. Something tugged at his ankle. He looked down, and the third one had grabbed him. Its hand had morphed into some kind of tentacle. He kicked it under the chin with a cry of revulsion, and shot it in the head twice.
They’re like ants. They were coming out in a flood now. He was beginning to doubt there was a finite number. His eyes cast around the room desperately for some kind of solution. Torches on the walls. Fire? No, they’re wet. He obliterated another creature as he scanned the walls. The eye was still staring down at them through the archway. Its scrutiny was hypnotic. He felt it pulling at him, like it had its own gravity, pulling him to match its gaze.
And next to the archway–
Not those.
The Soldier felt his head physically turned away. Oh yeah? Why not? he asked the intelligence inside him impishly. He knew what he had seen, nestled away in the corner: the oval shape of an egg.
They are unimportant. Come, finish this folly so we may embrace our new future.
For an alien god, you’re a bad liar.
Another creature was approaching him. He planted a foot in its chest, and as it toppled, he brought his heel down on its head with all his force. A wet crunch confirmed the kill. “Sai!” he called, as a roguish smile began to form on his face.
Another volley of pink shurikens was flying from Psylocke’s fingers as she heard him. Three shurikens flew; three of the things fell dead. “Juu-yon,” she uttered, as she turned to him.
“Can you keep them off me for a while?” the Soldier demanded.
In answer, Psylocke reached into her coat pocket, and drew out a handful of small paper objects. For a moment, the Soldier was lost - until she threw them to the ground, and struck the flat of her sword against the stone. The balls burst with a flash of colour and bang that seemed to shake the chamber. Fireworks, the Soldier realised. He took off running, not stopping to look and see if it had worked.
Twenty paces away from the eggs, his foot moved on its own, planting itself down. Enough, James, came the voice in his mind, piercing the echoes of his footfalls. You cannot win. Give up.
Then stop me. You can, can’t you?
No answer. He took off running again. Ten paces, and a deafening screeching stabbed at his eardrums. You are a failure, James. His hands flew to his forehead, his teeth gritted in agony. You failed before you ever met Steve Rogers. The room was spinning. Let me reshape you into something better.
Fuck… you. The Winter Soldier took another step forward. And another. I won’t. I WON’T listen. Get OUT of my HEAD.
The sound faded. He was standing right in front of the archway. The eye beamed down on him, flaying him, tearing away his every layer, stripping away his every secret.
Give in, it told him. One of the creatures grabbed at his coat, and he whipped his arm back, slamming his weapon into its jaw and ripping it loose. He took a couple of steps to the side, and there they were.
There were six of them in total. Elliptical, each was a tapestry of purple veins, possibly half a metre high. The “shell” was translucent, and it was illuminated from the inside. He saw their repulsive occupiers squirming, wriggling like lampreys.
Do not do this. You are not able. You will fail. The Soldier felt it trying to pull his head aside once more, trying to reach his gaze, and wrestled it back to his prey.
No, the Soldier replied, relishing the simple denial in the word. He raised his boot, and brought it down on the nearest egg. The shell crumpled like paper under his weight with a crunch like he had split a crab’s shell. The foul spawn inside writhed and floundered under his weight. The Soldier let it wriggle there, entranced by its vile design, before twisting his heel. The feeling of cartilage tearing and bones cracking under his foot was victory, and its piteous dying squeal was sweeter than music.
The next moment, every nerve in his body lit up with agony. Ingrate! the voice screamed at him. Ungrateful! Undeserving! You would throw away your only chance to earn your friends’ respect!
Earning it right now. The Soldier could barely hear his own thoughts through the haze of pain, but he was more certain of this than he’d ever been. He raised his other foot, and brought that one down on the next egg. The splinters of eggshell shot outwards, and once again, a hissing abomination was trapped under his heel. Almost casually, he pressed down, and felt the creature meet its messy death under his boot.
A wordless scream of fury echoed through the Soldier’s mind… yet, he realised. It was quieter. And was that eye behind the veil growing milkier? As though it were fading away? The Soldier chanced a glance back at Psylocke, and saw that the flow of abhorrent attackers was thinning. We’ve got this, he realised, exulting.
Stomp, crunch, crush, twist. Stomp, crunch, crush, twist. Stomp, crunch, crush, twist. Three more putrid offspring sent to an early grave. Every kill lessened the pain in his body a little more. The voice yelled platitudes, threats, insults. It promised a golden future and a blackened hellscape. But with every twist it grew quieter. Soon, the Soldier was staring down the final egg.
You would not dare. The voice was distant now; as if someone were speaking to him down a long hallway. The shrieking in his head, once overwhelming his senses, was now nothing more than the faintest echo of pain.
Let’s test that.
You cannot hurt me. You cannot DREAM of it, I was old when Gilgamesh was young, I was there when you nailed your god to a stick and I LAUGHED–
One final time the boot rose. It plunged down, pulverising the eggshell and trapping the last twisting creature. The Soldier put all his weight into crushing this one - and when it was done, he scraped it across the floor for good measure.
A final, wordless scream echoed through the Soldier’s mind. He barely had time to take a breath before his vibranium arm began to writhe and contort, whipping side to side, twisting at angles human limbs could not replicate. His nerves screamed at him, telling him his bones were breaking, his joints twisting. To his horror, a creature seemed to take form from his shoulder, some kind of repulsive octopine thing with too many tentacles and too many eyes, black skin and purple irises that spoke of hatred. It peeled itself loose from his skin, and its tentacles lunged for his face.
The Soldier’s deeply-trained reflexes saved his life. His remaining hand whipped upwards and seized its torso, yanking it away from him. It shrieked indignantly, its beak bared wide in fury, snapping frantically at his flesh.
A pink blade flew over his shoulder. It skewered the octopus like a piece of meat, and it shrieked one final time, and died. The Soldier dropped it ignobly and turned to Psylocke, wiping his hands on his jacket. She walked over to him, and rested a black-stained hand on his twisted shoulder.
“Are you all right, James?”
The fight had only lasted five, perhaps ten minutes, but the Soldier felt exhausted. His arm was still singing. He looked up at the archway, and saw - to his immense relief - that it was filled with nothing more than stone. It was gone, for good. He nodded at Psylocke, and tapped the bead in his ear. “Steve?”
“Buck!” The relief in Captain America’s voice was tangible. “The base is wired. We can burn it down whenever you’re ready. How are things down there?”
“Good.” He looked around at the room. The bodies of the tar-creatures had melted down, and before his very eyes, it was dissolving, eating itself like acid. “We… we did it.”
“Great job, Bucky.” The Soldier could hear the grin on Captain America’s face. “I’m waiting outside with Clint. Come and join us.”
“We’re on our way. Out.”
His hand dropped to his side. “Ready?” he asked.
“I will be glad to never see this room again,” Psylocke responded. “The things they toyed with here… unspeakable.”
The journey back through the complex felt to the Soldier a bit like someone shuffling a deck of cards. Back through the keypad door, and the Soldier was pleased to see thefaces of the real Captain America and Hawkeye waiting for them. “Great to see you again, Buck,” Captain America said. “Knew you’d come back to me,” Hawkeye chirped, with a grin of relief plastered over his face. He blinked, and the cards shuffled again, and now they were going back up the stairs to the second level. He had to stop and catch his breath, leaning on the staircase, as his body screamed at him that enough was enough, he needed to stop. Another shuffle, and he was in the lift that carried them back to the corporate hell of the first level, and Captain America was asking if he was all right, that he looked “down and out”. Shuffle, and he was somewhere he didn’t recognise.
“Where are we?” he probed. His legs felt like iron.
“This is the corridor to the airfield,” the Captain responded. “We’re following back the path I took to you. We’re almost there, Bucky. Castle.” The Soldier looked up, and saw with tiredness-stained disappointment that the Punisher had joined them. For once, he didn’t have a gun in his hand; instead, he had a small detonator.
“Captain.” The Punisher snapped Captain America a salute. “There’s a few hostiles escaped out into the snow. You got one final round in you?”
The Captain nodded. “You up for this, Buck?” he queried gently. “You can stand down if you need. Your job’s done.”
The Soldier straightened, shaking off the exhaustion, and shook his head. “I can handle a few more.”
The Captain nodded at him, and turned to the Punisher. “Lead the way.”
On the other side of a sliding glass door was a hangar. Perhaps aircraft had been here once, but they must have been taken when the base had been evacuated, because it was empty now - just a huge metal room with a smooth stone floor and a few smaller vehicles for transporting plane parts, fuel, and other peripherals needed to keep a plane in tip-top shape. The Soldier saw a few abandoned barrels of fuel huddled together like penguins. Guess that’s where they got their fuel, he noted.
The hangar doors were wide open, and a few security guards were standing out in the snow when they arrived. They were standing amongst a field of their fallen comrades; the Punisher had taken the liberty of shifting the corpses he had made out into the snow to freeze. They didn’t open fire as the attackers approached. “Guess they want to talk,” Hawkeye remarked.
“You’ve got a knack for stating the obvious, Clint,” the Soldier replied. He drew his sidearm and reloaded, never taking his eyes off the figures outside.
There were six of them, all said and done, and the one on the far right began to talk as they reached the doors. “We will not surrender,” he stated flatly. His accent was European, tinged with Russian. “The HYDRA does not submit.”
The Captain locked eyes with each of the final survivors in turn. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” he shot back. “HYDRA’s done here. Come with us and face justice. No one else needs to die.”
“You do,” the guard finished. The last survivors raised their weapons.
Perhaps Captain America could have stopped them, disarmed them, arrested them. The Winter Soldier didn’t care. Quick as a snake, he raised his sidearm. Six shots, and six guards fell, shot perfectly in the head. None would have cause to complain.
The gunshots were still echoing over the snowy hills as the group stepped out of the hangar and out into the snowdrifts. They walked for a moment in silence, each battling the cold in their own way. Hawkeye saw them first; figures in the snow, atop a rocky outcrop. He whistled. “You guys see that?” he asked. “We’ve got an audience.”
“I’ll check it out.” The Captain set off at a jogging pace. His blue coat was already catching snowflakes as he went. The Soldier extended his remaining good hand towards the Punisher. “May I do the honours?” he asked. The Punisher shrugged, and slapped it into his hand. “Nice shooting back there,” he offered. The Soldier didn’t respond.
The white of the snow glinted off the black plastic. He squeezed it in his hand, thumbing the detonator, before pushing it with the gentlest of presses.
The detonation began under their feet as the final scraps of HYDRA’s project was immolated. The rumbling rose, rose. The ammunition in the barracks detonated in a lethal fireworks display as the room was charred to ash. The pine-tree air freshener was battered by the shockwave as the tacky posters and repulsive carpets of the laboratories were roasted. Finally, the explosions reached the hangar, the Punisher’s explosives mingling with the rising fireball as it burst out of the hangar doors in a perfect display of destruction that warmed them for a fleeting moment.
Hawkeye cheered and stomped his feet. The Punisher’s lip curled in a half-smile of satisfaction. Even Psylocke’s eyebrows raised in appreciation.
Not the Winter Soldier. It wasn’t the first time he had left a HYDRA base in ruins, and as reflected tongues of flame danced on vibranium sheet metal, Bucky Barnes offered a silent prayer that it wouldn’t be the last.