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⠀⠀⠀– James, – Zemo touches the glass with his finger, and Bucky feels that the baron is capable of turning the situation around; not only metaphorically getting under his skin, but also touching him in a very real way. As if the glass is a sham, designed to weaken vigilance and dissolve into routine inaccessibility, as if Zemo, his lips twisted into a twisted smile, stands in front of the glass instead of Bucky himself, devouring with his gaze the empty eyes, the sprawling swamp, dangerously swaying under his feet. You can never tell for sure when his eyes will tear open the bottomless mouth of endless swamps. It was disgusting; it was clear that Helmut was aware of his pernicious influence on Barnes's shaky mind, yet his hands remained clean, for as much contempt there was, now there was just as much pity, and the sprawling swamps were merely the soldier's own mirror, which was safer to interpret as a threat from another than to drown in his own. The hanging silence did not serve as a catalyst for irritability; on the contrary, touching his stubble with his fingers, feeling it with his fingers with a characteristic impressive crunch, the man sinks deeper into the depths of his empty consciousness, which he considered more of a room not for solitude, but for the opportunity to take revenge in the present, so the staring contest was cut short by Barnes' sharp glance down at his own boots, which crookedly absorbed the reflection of his face, depriving it of its rough features; as if a brushstroke were depersonalization.
⠀⠀To isolate himself with walls and fall into total stagnation, and Zemo never evoked any other feeling: a reflexive desire not so much to hide as to dive into the depths of emptiness, enveloping him in the constancy of its stable lifelessness—this is protection. Protection from the pulling influence of the baron's knowledge. From what he might say and how he might twist your arms with a few stock phrases. Not being a psychotherapist or someone who should be pulling apart the threads of destruction in one's mind, he sinks his teeth into the skin of answers and predictions with carnivorous destruction. There was as much danger in this as there was attraction, twisting the truth to the sounds of thoughts.
⠀⠀"You don't come here just like that, James. And I can see that your thoughts are touched by fear. You try to be afraid, but you can't interpret why the abyss of attempts to escape is desperately opening its mouth in your head. You came to me to make sure... What is it?" Zemo shakes his finger and Bucky looks up, opening his mouth belatedly, but the baron interrupts him instantly.
⠀⠀"It's all... my doing. You want to hold on to the idea of reflex. Of a memory you thought you had let go. You're sure, but you don't understand why your body accepts the belief, but the walls of your mind don't open the door to relief. It seems you still believe that my presence, me alive, is a burden on you, winding the clock back for the trigger. But James, answer this question for yourself—the man's Adam's apple jerks as the metal fist presses against the glass, forcing the muscles in his shoulders to twist, tense, almost whine and choke. His tongue dries up, and Zemo shudders methodically, tilting his head forward slightly.
⠀⠀“Are you really afraid of me, or is it in your best interest to hide behind fear of me?” And the blow to the glass vibrates, pushing Baki's hand away, causing the baron himself to take a few awkward steps back toward the edge of the bed. It all looked forced, mechanical. The prescribed code of responses seemed so flat, so executable, that James himself did not realize what he had just done and why he had done it; why his fingers had clenched and why he simply needed to tap out a soulless rhythm. As if there was a code in it, a clue. He was sure that such an action was an open call to show the living voice beneath the thickness of muscles and ligaments. Beneath the demonstrative movement of the skeleton. One way or another, he was a systematic set of clues, a tool for implementing basic structures. In general terms, a decision-making organism. And Zemo's topical gaze opens his mouth to look where the soldier standing in front of him did not look. Where there are no flat glare of superficial reflection. And he knows for sure that they are looking back at him, swaying the dry stumps of instincts and the fermented reeds of involvement, but this does not change the prisoner's initial expression. His palms are clasped, and his head, tilted forward, sways briefly and listlessly. Zemo himself does not understand when his tongue presses against his palate, when “incomprehension” becomes tactile enough to cloud the clear expression of his personal thoughts, to suppress the clenching of his jaw, to remind himself that someone is talking to him, ruthlessly drawing him into the shadows of sticky observation: it was not so much Helmut who delved into the image of Baki, but Baki himself. Like sticky tape, he drew in uncoordinated words, as if they were confused flies.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Feeling your wings sticking is a trap.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀However, realizing that these wings are pulling to tear you away is already unconditional surrender; a rule that sets the tone, where you have become an unwilling player.
The prisoner's roughened fingers sway, rubbing his dry skin noisily. As soon as Barnes crossed the threshold of the guard post to the human enclosures, it didn't take a genius to understand that their waltzing tug-of-war had begun. It wasn't so much that the baron himself gave in, but rather that he made a fatal concession, while Baki faded away, losing the lively sparkle of his dark eyes and bodily gestures. Exuding what no real person can tolerate when faced with the absolute unattainability in their eyes. A dirty enchantment and a stain on instincts.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀If your instincts speak louder than your mind, masquerading as unconditional satisfaction, run.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀But Zemo stands passively. He has no choice but to run.
⠀⠀⠀⠀– Well, if you don't like thinking about such a cover-up, then let's imagine a hypothetical situation where you let me go, as an object of contempt and a metaphorical bridge to HYDRA," he shrugs charismatically as Baki's lips move, trying to give at least something to his empty face and dull gaze. It seems that the broken smear on his shoes was right, reducing the outlines to simple generalized forms; to say with his facial expressions that he is here, although in reality Zemo's words become separate fragments of selective hearing. Something that seeps through the cracks when the world around begins to fade, deafening with its innocent emptiness. Staying inside the walls is pure pleasure without connection, and to think, James didn't realize why he continued to pretend to listen to the baron and why he had come here.
⠀⠀⠀⠀There were no answers at the moment, and it was all a contrived farce to shake off the verbal stagnation of six months in complete isolation. But on the other hand, Barnes himself had crossed the threshold of the raft and, without hesitation, stopped near the glass behind which the baron stood. Bucky was confused as to which of them had come to whom.
⠀⠀⠀Their views of each other were strikingly different from how the situation actually unfolded: Barnes was wrong in not understanding, and the Baron was wrong in thinking that his concession was a patch for the barrier.
⠀⠀⠀Bucky's living palm pressed against his face, shielding him from the stuck pause in his head: he no longer had to defend himself in bliss because Zemo was no longer speaking, bringing a new wave of silence into the tense trap. Now bliss didn't seem enveloping. It just clung like a net to shackle the body and play hide-and-seek. His hands moved, but the stiffness in his head clicked like locks, binding his will into a house without walls.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The house without walls, with its floor and hollow surroundings, seemed even more mocking than Zemo's capitulating speech.
⠀⠀⠀⠀“Speak,” Baki bites his lip, and Zemo presses them together as if nodding in understanding.
⠀⠀⠀⠀“You tell me first, Bucky.”
⠀⠀⠀“What are you talking about?” His furrowed brow betrayed only another reflex, while his head was flooded with the serenity of his peaceful surroundings. Something in his words, something in his request resonated and made him relax, reducing the clicking of the locks to an accelerated rhythm. At the same time, it began to boil in convulsive panic and extinguish itself in the cryostasis of a wall-less house. Both palms pressed against the glass as his slightly parted lips did not gulp air, but exhaled in silence. Sweat rolled down through the wrinkles and stubble, fingers scratching thin holes in the fence.
Baki understood that Zemo had to say something else, to add to his request. To reach his fingers to his head so that the dry skin would twist his neurons into knots, fencing off the space until it converged at a single point. His heart was beating on his tongue, and adrenaline was rushing from his blood to his trembling knees. A slight tremor, like nervous swaying. And damn dryness. Dryness in his ears. It crept from his tongue into his ears, forcibly drowning out the streaming world around him.
The buzzing of the lights, the roll call of the guards, his own labored breathing, and the sound of shoes on the floor. Everything became an unreal layer between him and consciousness. The oilcloth curtain muffled his senses, wrapping him in a thick cocoon.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀And only then did a breath sound in his head.
⠀⠀⠀⠀The vibration became a blade cutting through the oilcloth and a shot deafening the silence.
The phone, displaying the name on the screen, gradually became a familiar attribute provided by the government: like a pinprick, blow after blow, they pierced the chain of consciousness.
⠀⠀⠀The caller was Elena. The confiscated phone was their direct means of communication for clarifying tasks and wiretapping, for text messages with brief descriptions, for maintaining their location. He tried for a long time to swipe the call icon, breathing heavily.
⠀⠀⠀⠀Zemo was static: nowhere to run, nothing to say, and being stuck in one situation did not play into his hands. He swallowed. The situation began to unravel, but to say that it was over would require a total reset.
⠀⠀⠀⠀“God, Baki,” Elena's voice crackled through the interference.
⠀⠀⠀⠀“Baki, can you hear me? Do you know that you can't just call this fucking RAFT like you're calling a pizzeria?”
⠀⠀⠀⠀“Where the hell is the connection coming from? A hundred thousand leagues under the sea is a whole new level,” Walker's voice in the background was as comical, inappropriate, and possessive as ever, verging on idiotic. And Barnes shakes his head, trying to swallow his heavy breaths.
⠀⠀⠀⠀“They have a telepath there who sorts incoming calls. What else would a seasoned supervillain do but eavesdrop on government secrets and girlfriends' conversations about hard mattresses?”
⠀⠀⠀⠀“Walker, shut up!” Elena groans resignedly into the phone.
⠀⠀⠀⠀"You're such a pain in the ass. Interrupting a date between an ex-convict and a convict behind bars is not very team-spirited. You know, maybe they're discussing a boxing coup behind the curtain in the toilet in front of the camera," Ghost snorts with laughter in the background, while Baki simply rolls his eyes, rubbing his eyebrows with his iron hand. It seemed to him that hitting himself with it now was more of a necessity than a whim.
⠀⠀⠀"Oh, John, don't worry about preserving my baronial face. The guards are surprisingly understanding people. Even without a curtain, they allow me to cover myself with a blanket. Although, it's not without discomfort: I know they're watching, and I'm watching them in return. I wouldn't call it a refined date. But I'm sure that with this approach, we've definitely become closer," and Helmut's gaze slides to the flashing camera, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, and Bucky simply can't take it anymore, hitting the glass again, pushing back in response due to his inertia.
⠀⠀⠀“Are you done?” Helmut, in his usual manner, nods again, while Elena's exclamations send Walker to Kamchatka, creating additional noise from the side. It seems that the small argument has escalated into violence when a woman's hand raises a baton, and the words about the bent shield are a direct attack, causing Walker to rant incoherently, almost knocking the door down with a bang. Elena growls something vaguely in Russian, causing Barnes to shrug his shoulders, muffling the speaker a little.
⠀⠀⠀"Sorry, Bucky. When are you coming back? We have to move out tomorrow, will you make it? And what did you forget... The accent-loving submissive?
⠀⠀⠀– It was nothing, never mind. I'm heading out now, see you in Kansas. – And he hangs up, staring at Zemo as he spreads his hands to the side, comically shifting his weight to one leg.
⠀⠀“But I wouldn't mind a curtain, you know.”
⠀⠀“Shut up.”
⠀⠀“Fair enough. And I'm sorry we didn't get to...” Baki turns away, clearly not intending to listen to what Baron has to say. A humming sound hangs in his ears; strategic, to plot a visual route from the prison to civilized buildings and dry land, when his finger closes on the button to call security for an escort. Standing with his back to Zemo, he feels a storm brewing; a growing ideal of heightened senses, nerves running along his fingers, legs, back. Let Baron look at his back without showing any dry hostility, excluding motive and intent, Barnes' presence is a catalyst that penetrates intravenously. Spreading layer by layer, reaching critical mass to boil.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀And his lips lick. Just distract yourself.
⠀⠀⠀"James, listen, you didn't come here alone.
⠀⠀⠀"Are you saying you ordered me to come? Was Walker right about telepaths, and you signed up as a forced volunteer? Zemo, stop it. I needed to make sure that after what happened in New York, at least here, everything was stable.
⠀⠀⠀– Is stability the only thing in your life right now, James? But you're getting off topic. I understand that you're not trying to grasp the metamorphoses because they're too deeply woven into your routine. But James, please, at least listen to me now: you're not imagining things. Your consciousness is cutting off the thread of thought, and if I start speaking directly, your brain will begin to rewrite my every word, adjusting it to fit your impressions. I am sure even now that you did not hear everything I said before. And even now, your thoughts are distorted.
⠀⠀⠀⠀“Stop it, Zemo. I came here on business, but you still haven't given me an answer.” He shakes his head, already following the guards who are entering, while a stranger's inappropriate gaze burns into his tracks. And Baron himself bites his own lips.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀What were they talking about that James is so sure of?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* * *
⠀⠀⠀“You know, Elena, even though we're shadow bastards,” Ava holds a plastic apple in her hands, puffing out her lips as she exhales loudly. She squeezes it until it starts to deform. In fact, looking at the falsehood displayed before her eyes is the last thing the ghost wants to think about right now, while the widow taps her fingernails on the phone screen, annoying her at least a hundred percent. They are all on edge, like wound-up toy soldiers spinning here and there, standing in the congress office, waiting for people with a licked envelope and several bundles inside with a mission for silent infiltration, destruction, attraction, or cleansing: damn them, or whatever, because antihero meat is expendable, non-public meat that you don't mind getting your dirty hands on; it's no pity to make them expendables who clean up after magicians, new heroes, and everyone who tears themselves apart in front of the crowd for a benevolent image, tearing all their heroic naivety out of their spine: no pragmatism. An exclusively white streak without gray morality, in which people like those without a future, to whom the name “Thunderers” has become attached, are needed. And here's the irony: none of them have changed their line of work, except perhaps Walker. However, taking into account the “dominant side” with the “right values,” even frying oil would cease to seem like dripping fat in the face of such hypocrisy. The Thunderbolts are known as people who have been inoculated with nobility, who have developed antibodies to the black streak of villains in the barracks. In fact, they are a useless gathering of super-soldiers to achieve efficiency in restraining their undirected energy. In the eyes of the average person, they are city rangers who chase punks around the backyard on government leashes. Actually, the leashes are true, but the rest is nonsense. A product of the red room, a military man who served his country not only with awards but also with victories, a future super soldier and former Captain America, Ava Starr is a living ghost and proof of the inevitability of severance, a brilliant scientist who gets results. A former HYDRA soldier with eighty years of combat experience on his shoulders; a tactician who understands technology and a security officer who knows the price of a coup within the country. To assign such material the status of “ranger” is to burn the vaccine against true smallpox in the bonfire of the Inquisition.
Only De Fontaine understood this, while the rest of the fools were ready to lay down rugs in the RAFT rooms. SHIELD and related organizations are a bunch of people following a set chain of formulas, excluding new approaches to solutions. Gathering such trash in one space and forcing them to work with each other is the success of the shadow business of the superhero movement. Such is the price of ideal people and idols.
⠀⠀⠀“But this is just spitting in our plates. Couldn't they have put at least one real apple? They wipe their feet on us like we're worthless rugs. And we can't even get a word in edgewise,” the girl throws the crumpled apple at the wall, rubbing her costume gloves.
⠀⠀⠀“I'll bring you that damn apple, Ava, just calm down.” Elena reached with the finger of her free hand to her lips, trying to bite her nail as a stress reliever. She certainly had no time for her teammate's trivial complaints when her body was tense with anticipation. After Bob's stunt, everything went off course. Everything was brilliantly ruined: freedom became the scourge of their existence, from which, according to the government, they needed to be saved. They were puppies that needed to be taken care of. Throw away the stick and the whip. To be honest, being a controlled puppet is the lesser of two evils. Being conscious and unable to do anything is the real cage. And Belova bites her fingernail when Walker shakes her out of her thoughts.
⠀⠀– It's not about the apple, Belova. He bangs his dirty boots on the table, puts his hands behind his head, and adjusts his beret on the back of his head. Both girls turn around, while the widow just rolls her eyes, not wanting to listen to this vain little man. Every word is filth coming out of John's mouth: it makes you want to step on him.
⠀⠀“They treat us as if we are obliged to lick the raindrops off their shoes. Maybe you and Barnes have a fetish for humiliation and submission, but Starr and I are ordinary people with ordinary values, and we don't fucking want to moan when someone presses a shoe against our throats.” Lena looks up. Not every sentence he uttered was filth, she concedes. But this stream of contempt for what she and Barnes had to go through is ridiculous. Still, she's not going to make a big deal out of it. Moreover, she won't talk to a boor who doesn't understand how to control himself and his existence. He's also on this team, an integral part of the ship heading one way to the bottom, so he shouldn't talk nonsense. He's an idiot who understands his gray morality but tries to appear to be a white-collar worker. Look at this wretch: his gait alone betrays him as a man who will beat women and children because he is stronger. Why hide her sin from God: she is sure that he steals candy from those same children on the playground to stroke his trampled ego. Fuck, she would watch as a crowd humiliates him with children's feet, while the only thing left for him is to cover himself with his twisted taco. Because of this stimulation of pleasure from delusional violence, which had remained in her since the days of the red room, she smiles involuntarily, and Walker makes the most stupid expression his facial expressions are capable of.
⠀⠀⠀"You open your mouth without knowing what to say. That's your style, John. Even Bob humiliated him, not even being a guard yet. What can you get from this man?
⠀⠀"Come on. Since Bucky isn't here, is there unspoken freedom of speech? We have business to attend to, and, by the way, Barnes didn't show up.
⠀⠀– He wrote that he was going to RAFT.
⠀⠀– They caught him pretty quickly. An old lady crossed his path, and he decided to cross her? – Walker smirks. If it were possible to gouge eyes out of a skull, Elena would have done it, of course.
⠀⠀"He said he wanted to check if everything was okay and if Helmut Zemo had escaped from prison.
⠀⠀"Were there any signs? Ava raises her eyebrows.
⠀⠀"I don't know. His head is a mess instead of thoughts. I don't know what chain of thoughts Bucky could have constructed. It's still a mystery what he thinks about and how he does it. Elena simply raises her hands helplessly. Walker props his cheek with his palm and his gaze falls somewhere toward the floor as he clicks quietly. Bucky no longer evoked such rejection and hostility in him. But it was definitely right to hate him, and even quite practical; a man who didn't understand him but had been in his place acted hypocritically, wanting only to satisfy his own gestalt on the shield and not accepting that he was facing a fellow human being and receiver, albeit one without Steve Rogers' ambitions, but ready to carry the burden. And, taking into account the spontaneity of his choice and his obsession, Walker clicks somewhere in his head with the idea that he has once again isolated himself to “goal and achievement.” But this time, everything looked too blurry. Nothing that would give him a hint and make him think for everyone, let alone help pull James out of his planned game — no way. He took on the role of “U.S. agent” not to babysit the traumatized former toys of evil Russians and their ambitious plans. John is only here to heal his emotional wounds and finally put on the mask of redemption. To help his name shake off the shame, and therefore for personal gain. And thoughts of their ex-captain fade away. What a stupid idea to put him in charge? Experience, skills, but no planning. The corner of Walker's mouth twitches and he sinks back into the idea that he is a better strategist than the former winter soldier. For most of his life, he thought for himself, he was not branded or brainwashed into simply “do as you're told.” To be satisfied with just this realization is to keep his already damaged self-esteem afloat. It's a kind of anchor that also contributes to his direct involvement in this team.
⠀ - So, my dear thunderers, beloved discarded women and fighters for the good removal of garbage, - The knock of heels was heard long before the doors opened and the smiling blonde proudly towered in her evening jumpsuit, playfully tapped her fingers against the rings as her gaze turned to all gathered, and the door behind her closes with a quiet rustle, pushing out the unlucky secretary, shifting with the tablet from foot to foot, looking at the team, then to the headmistress, shaking her palm awkwardly, as if greeting the others in the room; the same awkward greeting for her was from Ava, when Walker and Belova looked restrained behind De-Fontaine's back; to ignore the director's affectionate words is a separate type of creativity, the consequence of which is an art exhibition of her distorted emotions. Valentina impatiently strides forward again, leaning against the bar in the middle of the living room and looking ingratiatingly at Starr, who still hypnotized the artificial fruit, smiling condescendingly enough; playing along and making the ghost just look anywhere, but at least at Walker's splinter with his dull face, just not at Allegra. Actually, large wrinkles on her face began to eagerly fidget, because none of the thunderbolts gave an answer; moreover, her arrival and spectacular appearance was only overshadowed by a simple statement of fact: these hounds remained wayward stooges. Gavknet one and the rest will flood with bark; the nature of their behavior and imitation of each other is an amazing property of rallying on the basis of a common decline, akin to trouble, uniting abandoned puppies in a flock. In fact, Valentina thought it was touching in its own way: so alive and human to the inhumane killers, the named villains poking at each other with the hope of support.
⠀⠀ Oh, yes, it was the splendor of her choice that blinded her. Of course, she was blinded by herself and, possibly, Mel. But, according to De-Fontaine, the girl was stupid and too aware to realize all the prospects of the invigorated team. Actually, that's why she ended up along Allegra's right hand. Anything that has to go against someone will become mediation through Mel. It turns out that surrounding yourself with frivolous fools with beautiful eyes is an incredible strategy for success. I wonder, with her ability to think and solve problems along the way, are her own eyes considered beautiful? With them, she outlines Walker, Belova and Starr, gradually starting to knock on the surface of the tabletop, as if expecting something and the long silence is broken when Gold begins to awkwardly gasp, turning over slides on the tablet to bring the image to the projector with clenched fingers.
⠀⠀ - Finally, - Valentina turns her head to the board located on the wall near the bar.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ On the slide was a dossier without photos.
⠀⠀⠀ - Today your task is a laboratory. Yes, it is supported by the state, but there was a data leak that this laboratory is no more than just a cover.
⠀⠀⠀ - Cover for what? - Starr rests his fingers on his neck.
⠀⠀⠀ - My little impatient magician, this is what you have to find out. An official check together with the Avengers cannot be sent, moreover, let's say, they sleep and see their exploits on camera, but this is not the case for... - De-Fontaine hums modestly, outlining something with his hand.
⠀⠀ - Not for cameras. - Elena comes closer, carefully studying the blurry text of the dossier.
⠀⠀⠀ - If you show us this and ask us to take out bags of shit, it means that you either know or guess. - With some sarcastic manner, Belova looks at the headmistress, who squints rather fox, nodding and pursing her lips.
⠀⠀ - How did you know that from this tandem you will be smarter, despite the presence of a scientist in your ranks. Ava sighs with displeasure, pushing off the countertop.
⠀ - Speak already, do not pull Thor by the pigtail.
⠀⠀ - Previously, this laboratory was registered for the creation of bacteriological weapons for local destruction.
⠀⠀ - For war? - Walker rises from the couch, and Valentina only laughs.
⠀⠀ - What are you, John. Do you not know the general military situation: this is so, children's fuss in the sandbox with shootings. Whoever shoots more will be right. 'And Walker's face is contorted; distorted by oversaturation: he did not hate this woman. He wished her to ride her face on the asphalt, personally arranging this sandy matinee with bullets. Who does she think she is, giving him such a "head start"; such neglect and disrespect by those for those like her, laid heads, bones and honor. And he steps sharply forward when Elena puts out her palm, examining the woman with moderate anger.
⠀⠀ - Should you f * * * ing talk about it. Sandbox! So why the fuck are you standing here, and not throwing shovels at enemies at the borders? You can fuck straight on stilettos, come on! - He waves his hand, hitting the edge of the sofa on which he was sitting, Valentina only idly turns away to the screen, leading her shoulder.
⠀⠀ - Oh, John. Now you understand why you're "Shadow Agent USA"? Your incontinence, dirty manner of speech... You belong here. - and Walker naturally tears his throat to growl, but breaks into some vague sound, just trying to throw out the level of aggression, wanting to throw on Valentina; expose her over a panoramic window, watch her feet in shoes seed through the air. But exhales. Sharply, clearly and simply clutching at the back of the head. Elena only touches her shoulder to the touch next to John, who was winding up circles.
⠀⠀ - Go on, - Belova just asks to confront the fact.
⠀⠀ - No, not for war. Bringing out super-soldiers is, of course, an eternal theme. Perfect army, perfect defense. But this is an outdated ideology. "Local defeat" is a project that should oust from America all those who got here through the "pull" of passing lightweight borders. As super soldiers had a formula, so a US citizen has one.
⠀⠀ - What a delirium. Are you considered an American yourself? How the f * * * is this supposed to work? Here, in the room, there are anyone but Americans. If only by citizenship. Who is this genius of genetics who decided that this is a good idea? - Ava only bends her eyebrows skeptically.
⠀⠀ - I bet a hundred square meters that this is a blonde with blue eyes and the idea of a pure race. 'Elena almost laughed and Walker had some ridiculous feeling.
⠀⠀ - I can't say, however, the project sounded only in words, and all its details under the heading "top secret." But I can express a guess that went in circles aware of such an implementation. Most likely, there should have been some special character traits common to the "pure American." Something averaged for the spread of the virus. It was assumed that the virus would selectively devour memories, turning a person, if not into a patriot, then into one who would hastily return to his homeland. There will be no end or logical end. In a person who has become infected. These are just guesses, most likely also "patriotic," but the truth is somewhere nearby. In every country, in every world... Everybody wants to get in your head. 'De-Fontaine exhales, throwing her elbows out on the worktop as Mel stared in fright at the tablet screen. Walker always made her uncomfortable; this man was incredibly aggressive, responsive to emotions and could never speak clearly, turning to the exceptional language of violence. Verbal, emotional or physical - it doesn't matter. And the fact that he is able to listen to at least someone is an achievement. Elena Belova, definitely, along with Bucky, could well coordinate the actions of the detachment. And Gold bites his lips as he flips through a slide with a photo of the lab.
⠀⠀ - We will find it, fuck understand what "it" is, what should we do next? Destroy? Yeah, and if we get infected with an unknown sore? Smart thoughts haunted you, but we also know how to calculate risks. 'Valentina laughs softly again, moving the decanter of whisky towards her to crack the lid open and breathe in the light and fresh oak scent.
⠀⠀ - Look, Elena. See and report what is really happening in the laboratory. And put all the participants in bags without touching what they were working on. Surely I will have to describe your work in more detail? Maybe describe your actions point by point? If you know how to calculate, then there should be no problems.
⠀⠀ - Accepted. Elena looks at Walker and Ava. She seems to have wanted to ask something else, but Valentina laconically interrupts any attempts to open her mouth, which cannot but cause irritation from this bitch.
⠀⠀ - Mel sent a brief report for Barnes with your meeting place. In detail, you will already devote it. - And Gold runs up to Elena, pulling out a folder with a written form of details and location from under the tablet; also three bank cards and two keys. John hastily intercepts the folder from Elena's hands, starting to flick through while Belova made a clear displeased sound, and Mel simply recoiled aside.
⠀⠀ - Um... Here.. Here are bank cards for prescribed expenses, a car key and a safe with equipment. Its k-coordinates are in the information. Walker frowns.
⠀⠀ - Why is everything in different parts of Kansas? This is a joke? Are we playing catch-up? - Elena tilts the documents while Ava comes closer, looking at the headmistress and her subordinate.
⠀⠀ - Exactly, I did not say that the laboratory is mobile and its participants are always divided into several teams for testing, searching for materials and developing favorable conditions. They do not work in sterile gloves, but in field operations.
⠀⠀ - And you fucking decided not to mention this important, bitch, fact! - the man clenches his jaw while Starr again looks at Valentina incomprehensibly.
⠀ - This is illogical. The very essence of the study is lost. The "sterility" and "laboratory conditions" necessary for the elimination of at least some strain are lost. If the command is split, then what is the point? How do they work without checking each other and generally create at least something if on constant trips? - The puzzle of the picture was not glued together; they all looked at Allegra, who was already imposingly pumping the decanter, trying to pull a glass out of the box, but leaves this venture, shrugging her shoulders completely casually.
⠀⠀ - There is a super soldier serum, an incredibly technological Wakanda, decades ahead of us, Tony Starrk, who created a prototype costume in the field and connected to a life support device, and are you surprised by scientists working in the field? My God, you are still puppies who do not accept the conventions of the development of the world. It is so, - He shows a feline gesture with his hand, squeezing and unclamping the air.
⠀⠀ - Excites... To see you know the world with your Madame De-Fontaine. And then remote work will be a discovery for you. Oh, it will blow your little brains, but not all at once, dear. - She claps modestly so that the heels are again knocked to the door, which opens with another hiss, letting the woman go ahead.
⠀⠀ - I will be waiting for a report from you in two days. Deadlines are indicated. Conditions - in the same place. Good luck, Thunderbolts. - Mel is torn: he looks at the headmistress, then at the team, eventually nodding to them goodbye and hiding behind the door, almost stumbling. The screen image disappears. Everyone just looks at the closing door with bewilderment. Ava buries her fingers in her hair, Elena pumps documents. Walker just grimaced his face.
⠀⠀ - This bitch pisses me off. "The man exhales.
⠀⠀ - This bitch saved your broken reputation and pulled us off the bottom. Whatever bitchy she is, she's constantly up to something. We are only part of some plan. Rescued from the bottom for something. And, since she gave us a chance, then we will take her chance. Elena turns to the panoramic window.
⠀⠀ - This possessed fool created the Sentry, ignoring all his headaches. Literally a psycho was injected with steroids and given power - the Ghost pulls the collar tighter, starting to spin near the bar.
⠀⠀ - It's not Bob's fault. But you are right: if she is planning to save America, then she simply will not stop, clinging to any chance. A strange coincidence, when the sentry failed, then some kind of laboratory arose. She's nuts, turned on vanity. And we don't know what her future move is. - Elena knocks her teeth, thinking. Others nod.
⠀⠀⠀ - Fucking, also Bucky screwed up in RAFT. I'll call him.