"When the Hornet's Nest Is Stirred"
Nathaniel was sitting in his office, brow furrowed and wearing an expression that mixed annoyance with concern. Two days had passed since Owen and Wanda had vanished without a trace, as if they had completely dissolved from this world. Not even the most exhaustive searches had yielded results, not even with the help of Reed Richards and his company, the foremost specialists in dimensional instabilities. Everything pointed to what had happened being tied to one of those rifts.
The general set his glasses down on the desk—the same ones he had been using to review the information Richards had sent—and let out a long sigh. Even so, he trusted that stubborn kid: somehow, Owen always managed to make it through.
Meanwhile, Tony Stark had taken charge of VITAE as interim leader, though he complained constantly that it wasn't his thing. Deep down, he just wanted to dump the problem on someone else. Nicolas lacked the temperament of a leader, Banner couldn't issue coherent orders if Hulk came to the surface, and the X-Men, though they cooperated, followed their own agendas. In the end, it all fell to Stark, who carried the responsibility even while protesting every second.
On the Avengers' side, Steve Rogers helped where he could. After all, VITAE had been a founding part of the group, though the current situation was different: the Avengers were an independent association, accountable to no one, while VITAE was bound by permits, protocols, and governments that dictated their every move. The world had changed; it was no longer the era when heroes were exceptional, but a stage crowded with mutants, individuals with superpowers, and even presidents guarded by recycled super-soldiers from the past.
Nathaniel knew exactly who that new presidential "bodyguard" was: a hero discarded long ago, not for lack of ability, but for the color of his skin. An injustice that still stung.
All of this had erupted in just a day since Owen's disappearance, as if the entire world had chosen to spiral into chaos in his absence. The general smirked ironically, imagining the look on the boy's face when he returned and saw the mess waiting for him.
He rose from his seat, walked to the wine cabinet in the corner of the office, and reached for a crystal bottle. Yet he stopped midway. His hand lowered slowly and, instead of the bottle, he pulled out a hidden firearm from beneath the shelf. He flicked off the safety, his gaze hardening as his senses tuned to every sound around him.
Then, with a thunderous crash, the window shattered and something rolled into the center of the office.
Nathaniel barely had a second to recognize it: a grenade.
His reaction was immediate. He kicked it with surgical precision, sending it back out through the window, while simultaneously diving behind a sofa. The explosion shook the building, tore part of the wall apart, and filled the office with dust and fragments of stone.
The general peeked from his makeshift cover, shattered glass still raining down. His weapon aimed directly at the gaping hole in the wall.
Something black was hurled back inside.
Nathaniel fired without hesitation. The bullet struck the second grenade just before it exploded, and the blast tore the wall even further, reducing the office into a field of ruins.
Dazed, ears ringing, the general forced himself upright. His finger squeezed the trigger repeatedly, firing into the smoke where a shadow moved with impossible speed.
The silhouette finally emerged: a man dressed entirely in black, hood and mask concealing his face, one arm gleaming with metallic plating. In his other hand, he carried a shotgun, which he raised and leveled at Nathaniel without a moment's pause.
The shots thundered, shredding the sofa where the general had been hiding. Nathaniel rolled swiftly and dove behind his desk, which barely withstood the impacts thanks to its reinforced structure. A metallic click signaled the shotgun's magazine running dry.
Nathaniel rose then, both hands gripping pistols, a belt of grenades hanging at his side. Round, orange, strange—like small, deadly pumpkins.
The intruder—now clearly visible—was the Winter Soldier. He moved with brutal agility, dodging the first volley. Nathaniel answered with precise bursts, forcing him to duck behind the wreckage of another sofa.
The general pulled free one of his grenades, pressed a button, and hurled it. The explosion flung the Winter Soldier into the air. He barely managed to cushion his fall with his metal arm before another grenade detonated beneath him, blasting him against the wall. The impact would have pulverized an ordinary man, but the Soldier rose instantly, hardened by his implants and supersoldier conditioning.
Another grenade rolled at his feet. Instead of fleeing, he used it—riding the shockwave as a catapult to hurl himself toward the hole in the wall and escape.
Nathaniel's eyes stayed cold. This was no ordinary enemy. A normal person would have died a dozen times over in that office.
From beneath the desk, he drew a modified sniper rifle, a heavy black AWP. Without even looking through the scope, he fired. The shot cut the air and forced the Soldier to swerve as he ran outside.
Nathaniel leaned through the hole. The dust slowly cleared, the wind scattering debris. From the second floor, he saw him: the Winter Soldier, sprinting at full speed, clutching a wounded shoulder.
The general lifted the rifle again, this time pressing his eye to the scope. He had trained Nicolas; he had no serum, no powers, but his aim could rival any superhuman. And Owen… Owen had already been considered a perfect soldier before ever becoming a super-soldier. And all thanks to his training.
He squeezed the trigger.
The bullet tore through the Soldier's calf, punching straight through and dropping him to the ground.
Calmly, Nathaniel reloaded and aimed again. The crosshairs aligned perfectly over his target's head.
His finger was just a breath away from pulling the trigger…
Then he heard it: engines roaring. Several vehicles were approaching from different directions, the echo of their wheels and motors filling the night.
Nathaniel didn't pull the trigger on the Winter Soldier. Instead, he felt a cold premonition: there was someone else that man was carrying vengeance for. He shifted the scope and aimed at the vehicles closing in from all sides, aware they were the backup measure in case the Winter Soldier failed.
Each of his shots found its mark: an engine shut down, a driver lost control, and the car crashed nearby, bursting into fire and twisted metal. The uproar filled the clearing around the mansion, a place designed for peace and surrounded by a belt of forest. In theory, such a place should have been shielded by guards; in practice, the Winter Soldier's brutality had already cleared them out before the men in black arrived.
Nathaniel stayed on the second floor, measuring distances with the calm of a man who had seen too many wars. He set the rifle aside and, with precise movements, began pulling grenades from the belt across his chest. With measured gestures, he hurled them exactly where more enemies were clustered. The explosions ripped bodies and debris into a fiery rain; several attackers were left sprawled, dismembered by the general's lethal efficiency.
Others tried to fire back, but there was no time: a bullet from Nathaniel pierced the forehead of one who peeked out too far. No one else dared expose even the tip of a helmet; they were facing a veteran forged in iron, blood, and discipline. The message hit hard—they had chosen the wrong victim.
The order to retreat crackled over their radios when less than half the squad remained. Only then did they realize why they were being pulled back: something was approaching through the air, fast and powerful.
Nathaniel saw it too. He exhaled, let his weapons fall, and watched with a trace of recognition. He had no special grenades left; he'd spent them all. Pain burned in his stomach, his shirt soaked with blood, yet his composure never faltered.
"Looks like those things Oscorp cooked up are more useful than we thought. Maybe it's worth signing a few deals with them," he muttered, his breath heavy, glancing down. The blood on his stomach showed a solid hit—but not a fatal one.
It wasn't the worst of it. He sat down calmly on the floor and listened to the chaos outside: explosions, cars, screams. Before he could fully rise again, a metallic body crashed through the wall, and a man of steel emerged through the hole, landing with the weight of someone who never asked permission.
"Old man. Tell me you're alive, because if not, I'll have to deal with two psychopaths," Tony said, his voice carrying both concern and his characteristic irony.
"I'm fine," Nathaniel answered, holding his bloody side.
"That's not fine at all," Tony shot back as he rushed forward. "Jarvis, quick analysis." His tone was fast, professional, tense.
Though Nathaniel put up a tough front, many—even Stark, with his issues with authority figures—saw him as a paternal figure. Trust had been forged through fire; Nathaniel treated him like a kid, yes, but had been there as real support when it mattered. Stark knew it, and that's why he wasn't joking now.
"Sir, the bullet has not pierced vital organs, but the blood loss is concerning. He must be taken to a hospital immediately," Jarvis reported.
"I'm fine. You've got more important things: the Winter Soldier," Nathaniel replied with forced calm.
Tony froze for a moment. Owen had told him who that man was: the one involved in the murder of his parents. Old vengeance mingled with the mission.
"I'll deal with that later, old man. Right now, we're going to the hospital," Tony said firmly, without hesitation.
Nathaniel wanted to protest, but only shook his head. For a fleeting moment, he felt satisfied—and relieved.
…
Elsewhere, in an office filled with monitors, Alexander Pierce raised a glass of wine with a restrained smile. The calm shattered when his phone buzzed with a message. He read it, his eyes widened, and he hurled the glass against the wall with a sharp crash.
The woman on a nearby sofa, who had been speaking with him minutes earlier, looked at him in alarm. "What happened?"
"It failed. We kicked the hornet's nest and it failed. Tsk." Pierce showed a flicker of genuine concern that lasted only a heartbeat. "Without that guy—Owen Colt—it should have been easier. But it seems that old man still knows how to fight."
"Move everything and hide. If not, we'll get crushed," the woman ordered quickly as she stood, then left the room in haste.
Pierce fixed his gaze on the screen, fury and contempt twisting his face. "That old man is connected to too many forces he doesn't even understand," he muttered. And it was true: X-Men, VITAE, the Avengers; even ties to that new presidential bodyguard. "Cut off one head, and two more shall take its place," he added bitterly.
Although HYDRA had shown its open enmity against S.H.I.E.L.D., their plans were more intricate: they moved pieces in parallel, indifferent to whether it led to the worst battle imaginable. It wasn't just about facing a group of spies or Fury's agents; the real risk was fighting against all the networks of superhumans tied to Nathaniel. And if Owen didn't return soon, that conflict was going to escalate in ways even Pierce hadn't foreseen.
They had sparked a chaos that was now turning against them, and Alexander felt it in every fiber. Strategy had turned into panic, and panic into improvisation. Fragments of the night were deciding their own fates as the war had only just begun.