Adaptive Morning Attire
Revenge had never been sweet; it was cold, and it was clinical. At least for him that was the way it had always been. It was not a want, but a need... A need that had to be enacted. For the sake of the many lives lost with no recompense given…
At first the enemy was the Americans.
Then it was HYDRA.
Now it was the Avengers...
Something must be done.
It was not just Zemo’s revenge -though his wife and son were always heavy in his mind- it was Sokovia’s, it was for the remaining survivors with lost loved ones and no home to return. For his people that had been left helpless, alone and forgotten.
He was equipped for the task; he had the skills, resources, knowledge, and the patience... He would do this for them.
He was ready to implement the plan.
A parcel was left at his bedside that morning. The long looping handwriting informed him it was from Oeznik. He unwrapped it slowly, savouring the suspense, how the older man had carefully enclosed the item inside.
Once open, he blinked confused... It was a coat?
He picked up the coat that had been procured especially for him. Everything was to his usual specification: padded, hidden pockets, weather resistant, deceptively light, and so on, with one glaring exception... Fur-collared. Ostentatious. Eye-catching.
Clearly his servant had requested it for a reason. Maybe it was a quirk from his time as his Father’s right-hand, the late Baron Zemo had often worn fur and enjoyed flaunting his wealth. Though, likely it was simply to help cement his wealth and prestige if the mission desired it seen. Playing royalty or a rich pomp again...
Being a Baron meant dressing the part.
But he didn’t need it for this part of the mission. Not yet.
He stroked over the collar and the soft hairs part under his gloved fingers, combing through the real fur with a deep grimace. The Colonel wouldn’t willingly wear this. He still preferred combat fatigues or something a much less flashy.
He had to blend in first.
Still, he wouldn’t disregard gear made so particularly for himself. Humming quietly, he slipped his arms into the sleeves, finding more hidden compartments and reinforced material not previously seen.
It was warm although that was not its primary purpose. His fingers slide over its front, smooth under his touch. It would do.
He walked over to the mirror to inspect it further when something in his pocket ruffled. He hadn’t noticed there was something inside it.
He patted it first, paper or plastic crinkled from the inside.
Odd for sure.
He reached into the depths of the pocket and grasped hold of the items inside. One felt like a plastic bag of sorts, another like leather... It was strangely familiar.
He pulled the items out and froze. They fell from his grasp, all three items dropping to the plush carpet with soft sounds.
One was a note. Inevitably from Oeznik.
Another was a small plastic packet of light pink Turkish delight. His son had adored the overly sugary and floral smelling treat. Often favouring the bright pink rose-tainted jellies rather than any other.
He had never liked them, his Grandfather had kept a tray of them in his study, offering them to him as a child at every visit... They were sickly, he had eaten them quickly, near-gagging, as he had never been able to refuse. You didn’t reject a gift from that man.
For Carl and his endless sweet tooth, he had learnt to enjoy them. Every bite of intense sweetness gave the boy a smile that could dazzle the Sun itself. It was infectious and he would have eaten a million just to see that beaming grin never fade.
The last was a leather sheath monogramed with his house name and crest. It was not empty. A short dagger he had been gifted in his youth was encased in the leather. Oeznik had it made as a coming-of-age present, though the Baron had of course taken credit for it. The man hadn’t even been available when the young Zemo received it. Sixteen years old and his Father had been nowhere in sight.
But Oeznik had.
He reached for it carefully, he had not seen it in many years. It had been kept at his Father’s home…
The Zemo main estate had been flattened months earlier. Much alike his family’s townhouse in Nova Grad. Not much had been recovered. He certainly would have remembered this...
How Oeznik had found it he did not know; he pulled the blade from the sheath. It glistened in the low morning light, his birth name was still craved deep into the sharp, shining metal.
It had never drawn blood, far more of a decorative piece than an actual weapon. Still it was as pointed and deadly as ever.
Maybe it was time to use it.
His gloved forefinger pressed into the tip of the blade, it pierced the thick material and shallowly into the flesh. A bead of blood appeared on the silver-grey and with that the weapon was christened.
Finally, he opened the small note...
Sir,
When your vengeance has been wrought,
And your mind once again calm.
Wherever you may be.
I will await your call.
Oeznik, his family’s servant, retainer, butler, friend… His friend.
The man had always had a way of words.
He collapsed to his knees. After everything, it was the note that caused his legs to buckle.
A coat, a knife, and some Turkish Delight. A coat that reminded him of Father, a gift from the only person he had left and his son’s favourite treat.
That’s all it took. Tears pricked his eyes for the first time in months, too dry for so long, they stung as the salt flowed over his cheeks and burned his chapped lips. The emotion surged, cruelly drowning out the clinical numbness that had settled and found a home within him.
He was sobbing as strongly as he had been that day, surrounded by the destruction and the remnants of them… of his Home… of his life in shambles.
He cocooned himself the coat, uncaring that the fur was wet with tears, that his mind that had solely been focussed on revenge was a shattered mess...
He cried and remembered them.
When he saw Oeznik again days later, no words were exchanged aloud. No thanks needed to be spoken, least either of them be too deeply reminded of all they had lost.
Silence was preferable now,
And Zemo had no words to give.
He offered the last piece of the gifted Turkish delight to the older man, and it was accepted without question, a small nod and tight smile given in return.
Wrapped in his new coat, his blade safely tucked into its sheath at his belt, the final piece of the sweet treat – the last lifeline to a better time truly gone. He was ready.
As he left the car, he sent a lingering glance at Oeznik, he spoke entirely with his eyes and the other understood.
I am sorry, dear friend. For all of this.
He found solace in those wrinkled eyes and aged irises. He found the will to continue. The anxiety calmed by unspoken promises.
I’ll be waiting at home when you’re ready...