Consciousness returned gradually, the darkness parting and light coming in jolts. First—only the sensation of heaviness in my limbs, then a dull pain in the back of my head, and finally—cold metal under my back. I lay motionless, keeping my eyes closed, analyzing the situation with all available senses. The electricity had hit pretty hard, after all.
It was expected, but I remembered: don't approach clouds during a thunderstorm.
Smell: sterile air with an admixture of ozone and metal. A faint aroma of medicines and disinfectants. And something else... yes, blood. Human blood, fresh and old at the same time. A lot of blood around.
Sound: the steady hum of ventilation, the beep of medical equipment, distant footsteps on metal corridors. Voices—German, English, Russian. An international company. Hydra had always been a cosmopolitan organization.
Touch: I lay on a metal table, arms and legs fixed with thick steel shackles. Something cold and smooth touched my skin—monitoring sensors. On my face—an oxygen mask, in my hand—an IV drip.
I smirked mentally. They think I'm still unconscious. How cute. Their confidence in their own power is so amusing; if not for limiting my own strength, their whole endeavor would be child's play. But I needed to get here, and the regular operatives knew very little. I had to play along.
Slowly, as if only just coming to, I cracked my eyes open. A white ceiling with harsh fluorescent lights. A medical laboratory—glass cabinets with drugs, vital signs monitors, surgical instruments on sterile trays. Everything very clean, very organized.
"Our guest is waking up," I heard a voice with a slight German accent.
A man in a white coat approached the table—a doctor about fifty, with a neatly trimmed goatee and gray eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses. The classic image of a Nazi scientist, straight out of a war movie screen. Many of my victims had watched those movies, loving stories about Captain America.
"Welcome to our research center," he said, leaning over me. "My name is Doctor Strauss. I will be studying your... unique abilities."
I tried to move, but the cuffs held tight. I showed weakness, confusion—just what they expected to see.
"Where... where am I?" I croaked, feigning disorientation.
"In a safe place," Strauss smiled. "Very safe. Two hundred meters underground, in the heart of the Alps. Escaping is impossible, even if you had strength. And you don't."
He pointed to the IV in my hand:
"A powerful sedative cocktail of our own making. Strong enough to take down three elephants. You'll remain in a semi-conscious state while we study every cell of your body."
I closed my eyes, pretending fatigue. In reality, their "powerful cocktail" affected me no more than water. But they didn't need to know that.
"Why... why do you need me?" I muttered.
"Oh, my dear friend," Strauss rubbed his hands, "you know the answer perfectly well yourself. Regeneration at the cellular level, superhuman strength, thousands of years of life... You are the crown of evolution. Vampires don't hold a candle to you. You are an amazing convergence of circumstances that brought you to me. Or the result of alien intervention. Either way, we intend to uncover all your secrets."
Alien intervention. If only he knew how close to the truth he was.
The laboratory door opened, and another figure in a coat entered. A young guy. His face was tired, hands bloody—about twenty, with sharp features and dead blue eyes.
"How's our patient?" he asked.
"Stable," Strauss replied. "Sedatives are working, but regeneration continues. Look."
He pointed to the monitor screen, where my vital signs were displayed in real time. Pulse, blood pressure, brain activity—everything slightly elevated compared to normal, betraying active recovery processes.
The assistant came closer and looked at the monitor readings:
"Doctor, his vitals are strange. Regeneration is happening faster than we anticipated."
"That's what amazes me, my young friend," the doctor murmured. "His body isn't just healing wounds—it's constantly renewing itself. Every cell is in a state of permanent regeneration. That explains his longevity."
"I read the reports; I thought during the fight he was stronger," he noted. "Much stronger."
"Possibly adrenaline," Strauss suggested. "Or conscious control over regeneration. We'll find out."
They talked about me like a lab rat. Well, let them think that way. The more they underestimate me, the easier it will be to complete my mission.
And the mission was simple: find Hydra's top leadership and take a look at them. Read their thoughts, goals, and interests. Not rank-and-file agents, not researchers—the heads of this multi-headed beast. Those who make decisions, plan operations, who think they can rule the world from the shadows.
Power has always attracted people. It was their main weakness—an irresistible desire to control, dominate, stand above the rest. They created hierarchies, built pyramids of power, organized secret societies. And there was always someone who thought they deserved to stand at the top.
Hydra was the embodiment of this human weakness. An organization built on absolute submission and blind faith in ideology. Every agent was ready to die for an idea they didn't fully believe in, just because higher-ups ordered it.
"But first, prepare him for transport," Doctor Strauss said. "High command wants to see him personally."
"Where to?" the assistant asked.
"To the Alpine complex. The Baroness is waiting."
The Baroness. So one of Hydra's leaders was a woman. Interesting. In Nazi Germany, women rarely held high posts in militarized organizations. Either times had changed, or this lady was truly exceptional.
The assistant nodded and began disconnecting the monitors:
"We'll need a special container. If he wakes up during transport..."
"We have the right equipment," the doctor interrupted. "A glass sarcophagus with reinforced protection and constant sedative feed. It was used for transporting particularly dangerous objects."
Objects. Not prisoners, not people—objects. Apparently, in Hydra's philosophy, the concept of human dignity was entirely absent. Though I wasn't human either. How amusing. They were of the same species but acted as if different branches of the same niche.
Half an hour later, I was transported to another part of the complex. Now I lay in a transparent container, like a coffin of bulletproof glass. Inside, constant temperature was maintained, oxygen-enriched air circulated, and an endless stream of sedatives flowed through built-in tubes.
I observed the transport preparations through half-closed eyelids. Four agents in black uniforms checked the container locks, two more prepared a stretcher with mechanical restraints. Everything was thought out to the smallest detail—clearly, I wasn't the first "particularly dangerous object" in their collection.
The container was lifted and carried down a long corridor. For the first time, I could assess the scale of the underground base—it was a real city beneath the earth. Corridors stretched in all directions, disappearing into the rock depths. Ceilings were high, walls clad in steel panels with Hydra symbols. Red neon strips served as emergency lighting, creating a scary atmosphere for ordinary people. To me, it was just curious to watch.
We passed dozens of doors. Behind some, voices—meetings, reports, briefings. Behind others—mechanical sounds, as if machines or assembly lines were working. Once I caught the smell of gunpowder and metal—weapon workshops.
But what struck me most was the number of people. The corridors weren't empty—agents, technicians, scientists constantly came our way. All in uniform, all with serious faces, all moving with military bearing. Hundreds of people, possibly thousands. A whole army hidden under Alpine ice.
And all serving the idea of world domination.
I was amazed by this human trait—the ability to completely dissolve one's personality into collective identity. Each of these agents was once an ordinary person with their own dreams, fears, hopes. But now they had turned into cogs in a huge machine, ready to execute any order without questions or doubts.
What distinguishes a Hydra soldier from a soldier in any other army? Only the insignia on the uniform and the flag's color. The same blind fanaticism, the same readiness to kill for abstract ideas, the same illusion of self-righteousness.
People called it patriotism, duty, service to higher ideals. I called it herd instinct. The desire to belong to something greater than themselves, even if that "greater" brings death and destruction. After thousands of years, they were still a herd.
We arrived at the underground hangar.
I didn't expect to see anything like it. A vast space carved right into the rock, lit by powerful spotlights. In the center stood a quinjet—a vertical takeoff and landing aircraft, clearly based on S.H.I.E.L.D. technology. Only instead of the eagle logo on the fuselage, there was the Hydra symbol.
Another reminder of how deeply this organization had infiltrated official power structures. How many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents actually served Hydra? How many secrets were passed to the enemy? How many operations failed due to double agents?
Ha-ha-ha. The blood of many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents was just like Hydra's, but Natasha had her own ideas about her organization.
Betrayal—another quintessence of human nature. The ability to sell out friends, allies, ideals for personal gain. Or just for thrills—many traitors acted not out of greed, but from boredom, a desire to feel important.
The container with my body was loaded into the quinjet's cargo hold. I found myself in a dark, cramped space, surrounded by crates of equipment and weapons. Through the glass lid, I saw silhouettes of agents checking the restraints.
"The flight will take two hours," I heard the pilot's voice. "Weather in the Alps is unstable, possible turbulence."
"The main thing is to deliver the cargo intact," someone else replied. "The Baroness doesn't tolerate delays."
The engines roared, and the quinjet lifted off the hangar floor. I felt the familiar sensation of ascent, then horizontal flight. We left the underground base and now flew over snow-covered Alpine peaks.
Two hours in confined space gave me time to think. The Baroness—who was she? What place did she hold in Hydra's hierarchy? Why did she want to see me personally?
I recalled stories from one university professor's memories about female leaders of terrorist organizations. Usually, they were either fanatics, completely absorbed by ideology, or pragmatists using the organization for personal goals. Both types were extremely dangerous in their own way.
Fanatics knew no bounds in cruelty. They sincerely believed they served a higher purpose, so any methods seemed justified to them. Gas chambers, mass executions, human experiments—all just means to a "bright future."
Pragmatists were cunninger. They hid behind ideology but really sought power, wealth, influence. Such leaders were ready to sacrifice any number of followers to preserve their own position.
Either way, the meeting promised to be interesting.
Turbulence did start about an hour into the flight. The quinjet rocked and shook, the container creaked under strain. I heard agents in the cabin talking to air traffic control, coordinating landing.
"Alpine complex, Hydra-7 approaching," the pilot transmitted. "Requesting permission to land."
"Hydra-7, permission granted. Approach corridor three, northwest wind, 15 knots."
"Understood, approaching on corridor three."
The plane began descending. A few minutes later, I felt a soft jolt—landing. The engines fell silent, and the hold went quiet.
The container was unloaded and carried somewhere again. This time the path was short—we passed through a small hangar, then a covered passage, and entered another underground complex.
But this one was completely different.
If the previous base resembled a military fortress, this one exuded love for luxury and power. Marble floors, wooden wall panels, artworks in niches. It looked more like a billionaire's residence than a Nazi lair.
We took an elevator up, then walked a corridor hung with portraits in gilded frames. I recognized some faces—Nazi leaders from World War II, but there were more modern ones. Politicians, businessmen, military—all those who in some way contributed to Hydra's rise. So many of them. I couldn't wait to taste a leader's blood to learn more.
Operatives knew little. I'd say minimally little.
This whole gallery of human evil's glory was just paintings. I needed names and memories.
Finally, we stopped before massive oak doors. One agent pressed the intercom button:
"Baroness, we've delivered the object."
"Bring it in," a female voice sounded in English with a barely noticeable accent.
The doors swung open, and we entered a spacious office.
The first thing that caught my eye—huge floor-to-ceiling windows opening to a view of snow-covered Alpine peaks. The sunset painted the sky in shades of red and gold, creating a dramatic backdrop for the meeting.
The furniture was antique—a massive redwood desk, leather armchairs, bookshelves with folios in ancient bindings. On the walls hung world maps marked with Hydra positions. Red flags covered all continents—the organization was truly global.
And behind the desk sat she.
The Baroness was a woman of about forty, with aristocratic features and piercing green eyes. Dark hair was pinned in a strict bun, emphasizing the line of her neck. She wore a dark green business suit of impeccable cut—expensive, elegant, underscoring status.
But what struck most were her eyes. Empty, calculating, ruthless. The eyes of someone accustomed to deciding the life and death of thousands without the slightest pang of conscience. What an interesting girl.
"Finally," she said, rising from the desk. "The legendary bloodsucker in the flesh. Or should I say—in glass?"
She approached the container and leaned over me, studying every detail. Her gaze was that of a collector eyeing a new acquisition.
"Open it," she ordered the agents.
"But Baroness, he could be dangerous..."
"Look at him," she tapped the glass. "The sedatives are working splendidly. He's barely conscious."
The locks clicked, and the container lid rose. Cold air hit my face, bringing the scent of expensive perfume and cigar smoke. The Baroness really knew how to live beautifully.
"Leave us alone," she told the agents.
"But..."
"I said—alone."
The agents reluctantly left the office. We were alone—predator and his supposed prey. Only who was the real predator remained to be seen.
The Baroness sat in an armchair by the container and lit a cigarette. An expensive one, probably Cuban. Smoke rose to the ceiling in spiral clouds.
"You know what struck me most in the report about your capture?" she said thoughtfully. "Not your abilities, not the strength, not the regeneration. But that you allowed yourself to be caught."
I tried to feign surprise, but she continued:
"Winter Soldier is an excellent fighter, but you... you're something more. A being who's lived thousands of years, seen the rise and fall of civilizations. Do you really think one super soldier with a metal arm could take you down?"
She was smarter than I'd calculated.
"I... I don't understand what you're talking about," I muttered, continuing the role.
"Don't understand?" She laughed. "Then let me explain. You were looking for us. You deliberately provoked conflict to attract attention. You killed our agents in Mumbai, knowing we'd send a hunter team after you. And you let the Winter Soldier 'win.'"
She inhaled the cigarette and blew smoke in my face:
"The only question is—why? What do you want from us?"
I smirked.
Without answering, I stood and headed to the window, ignoring her surprised gaze. Sedatives? What nonsense. Their pathetic drugs couldn't affect my physiology.
"Nice view," I said, looking at the Alpine peaks. White snow, mountains. It evoked memories of distant early years of the hunt. "Good place to hide from the world."
"What... how did you..."
"How did I stand?" I turned to her. "Your sedatives would work on an ordinary human. Or a vampire. Or a superhuman. But I'm not an ordinary prisoner."
The Baroness jumped up sharply, her hand reaching for the desk drawer, where there was probably a weapon.
"No need," I said calmly, seizing control of her body. "I needed to find someone at the top of this rabble. Judging by the setup, how your subordinates treat you with ceremony—this is you."
"What do you want from us?" Her voice trembled, but she tried to keep composure, though she couldn't move. Slowly she sat back in her place.
I laughed. Quietly, without malice, more with surprise.
"Want? It's simple. I don't care about Hydra. Don't care about these people. I was above all of you long before your pathetic organization even appeared."
She shuddered, trying to move, but I kept talking, not budging:
"I am the Highest. I don't need people, don't need organizations, don't need power over the anthill. I'm just killing time, amusing myself with the ants. With you."
Confusion flashed in her eyes—she had no idea who she was dealing with.
"And your Hydra..." I was beside her instantly, faster than the human eye could follow, "...is just another gathering of walking food."
My fingers closed on her chin, forcing her to look me in the eyes.
"And I'm very hungry."
I sank into her throat. Time to take a look.
***
The massive gates of the Mumbai mansion flew open with a deafening crash, as if blown off by a hurricane. Kingo literally burst into the courtyard, stumbling over his own feet, his usual movie-star elegance evaporated. The expensive suit was torn, the snow-white shirt stained with dark spots, and his face—pale as a ghost.
"Karun!" he yelled, not stopping. "Karun, where are you?!"
A man in traditional white attire burst from the main entrance, with gray mustaches and a distraught expression. Karun Patel—the loyal assistant who'd followed Kingo for several decades, seen him through all moments of glory and falls. But now...
"Sir!" Karun threw up his hands, eyes widening in horror. "Where have you been?! I lost you! You vanished in broad daylight, and now..." he pointed a trembling finger at the stains on Kingo's clothes, "And why is there blood on you?! Your mouth is full of blood!"
Kingo rushed past him like a hurricane, heading for the stairs.
"Karun, not now! Prepare my suitcase for departure!"
"But sir!" Karun dashed after him, gathering the hem of his long shirt. "What happened?! Are you injured?! Should I call a doctor?!"
"Back off!" Kingo leaped stairs two, three at a time. "Just... just leave me alone! Do your job!"
He burst into his office on the second floor—a luxurious room hung with posters of his films and Bollywood awards. Golden statuettes gleamed in the rays of evening sun streaming through huge windows. But now Kingo paid no attention to the symbols of his fame.
His hands shook as he lunged for the massive safe hidden behind a portrait of himself as a maharaja from his latest film.
"Damn, damn, damn," he muttered, entering the combination. Fingers wouldn't obey, he erred, started over. "Come on... come on..."
Karun appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily:
"Sir, what are you doing? Can I help?"
"Saving the world," Kingo exhaled, finally hearing the lock click.
The safe opened, revealing contents: stacks of money, jewels, documents, and... an old mobile phone. A simple, outdated device that looked like an ancient relic against the mansion's modern tech.
Kingo grabbed the phone with trembling hands and frantically scrolled through contacts. Names flashed: directors, actors, producers, generals, agents... Not it, not it, not it...
"Where is it... where is it..." he was almost hoarse with desperation. The recently restored tongue worked poorly. "Where is it?!"
And there—the name.
Sersi.
Kingo hit call and pressed the phone to his ear. Long tones echoed in the office silence. Karun froze in the doorway, not daring to interrupt.
"Come on, come on, come on!" Kingo whispered, pacing corner to corner. "Pick up!"
Beep. Another. Another.
"Come on, Sersi! Come on!"
On the sixth ring, a click sounded, and a familiar female voice said:
"Hello?"
"SERSI!" Kingo nearly shouted in relief.
"Kingo?" Surprise in her voice. "You? I thought this number was dead. Found this old junk in the closet. How many years has it been? Ten? Fifteen?"
"Sersi, listen..."
"And remember when we were in London... when you were filming that movie about colonial India, and I didn't make it..."
"Sersi!"
"...and then we went to Phastos, and he showed us his new inventions, and you said they'd never catch on because people are too conservative for..."
"SERSI!" Kingo interrupted, his voice ringing with panic. "We have a problem!"
Pause. Then a serious tone:
"What problem?"
Kingo closed his eyes, gathering courage:
"A huge, motherfucking problem. The monster from the coffin has risen."