Trident Building — Sublevel Three, Secret Conference Room
Nick Fury convened an emergency meeting. Only three people were present: himself, Agent Coulson, and Deputy Director Maria Hill.
"Director, you said there was an urgent mission?" Hill asked, her eyes flicking to Coulson. "Why is Phil here? Wasn't he supposed to be on vacation?"
Fury didn't answer right away. Instead, he slid a folder across the table."Hill, I need you to put together a search team immediately. Destination: the Arctic Ocean. Classified operation."
Hill opened the folder, scanning the coordinates. Her brow furrowed."Greenland Sea? We've scoured this sector dozens of times. Nothing ever turned up."
"This time is different." Fury's single eye fixed on her."New intel. Latitude seventy-one north. Longitude forty-nine west. Take your best people. Bring the deep-sea gear."
Hill's suspicion deepened. "Is this source reliable?"
Fury and Coulson exchanged a look, neither speaking.
"That's classified," Fury said flatly. "Your job is to execute, not second-guess. Assemble the team and move."
Hill's jaw tightened. "With respect, Director, I'm the Deputy Director. I have a right to know what we're walking into."
"Hill." Fury's voice hardened. "This is a direct order. Don't push it."
The silence stretched before Hill finally nodded. "Understood. I'll get it done." She left briskly.
When the door closed, Coulson asked quietly, "Do you not trust her?"
"Right now, I don't fully trust anyone." Fury rubbed his temple."If that manuscript is accurate, Hydra already has people inside our command structure."
Coulson nodded grimly. "So what's next?"
"Keep monitoring Voss," Fury said. "I want every move he makes tracked. And dig into his publishing house—anyone who touched that manuscript."
"Got it." Coulson stood, but Fury stopped him at the door.
"Phil. If Rogers really is at that coordinate…"
Coulson's eyes lit with excitement. "Then we can finally bring the Captain home."
New York — Voss's Apartment
"Master, you seem cheerful today," Artoria said, walking in with a plate of sandwiches. She found Voss lounging on the sofa, humming to himself.
"Of course I am!" Voss grinned, taking a huge bite. "My book's getting reprinted. That means another fat paycheck!"
From the bedroom, Aqua burst out holding a glossy magazine. "Voss, look! A gorgeous bag! Only three thousand dollars!"
"Three thousand?!" Voss nearly choked. "That's my rent for a month! Are you insane?"
"But it's so pretty!" Aqua pouted. "Didn't you say we were going to be rich?"
"Rich doesn't mean reckless," Voss muttered, rolling his eyes. "Besides, I haven't seen the money yet."
Tom made a little "women, huh?" gesture, and Jerry laughed.
"By the way, Master," Artoria asked, "when does your novel release? I want to read what you wrote."
"Soon," Voss said proudly. "Oscar told me it'll hit shelves in a week. Then you'll all see my masterpiece!"
His phone buzzed.
"Mr. Voss, it's Oscar." The editor's voice sounded unusually tense.
"Oscar? What's wrong? You sound off."
"It's about your sequel. The release might need to be… delayed."
Voss frowned. "Delayed? Why?"
"Some… technical issues. Printing equipment, legal clearances." Oscar stumbled over the words. "Just a week or two at most."
"Technical issues?" Voss's suspicion deepened. "You're hiding something, aren't you?"
"No! Not at all!" Oscar rushed. "Just want to ensure the best quality for your work."
Though unconvinced, Voss let it slide. "Fine. But make it quick—I'm counting on that money."
"It'll be resolved soon," Oscar promised, and quickly hung up.
Voss stared at the phone. Something felt off.
"What happened?" Artoria asked.
"The release is delayed." He shook his head. "Maybe it really is a technical issue."
What Voss didn't know: an hour earlier, Oscar had received a call.
"Mr. Oscar, this is the FBI. Your upcoming novel touches on matters of national security. Its release must be suspended."
"National security?" Oscar sputtered. "It's just sci-fi!"
"This decision comes from higher authority. Cooperate, and your publishing house will not face losses."
Oscar, shaken, had no choice but to comply.
Elsewhere in New York
From a parked car across the street, a man in a black suit reported into his earpiece:"Target confirmed. Voss Nibaba, Midtown Manhattan. Routine activity so far."
"Maintain surveillance," Coulson's voice came back. "Track contacts and movements."
"Copy that… but, sir—his roommates look… unusual."
"How so?" Coulson's tone sharpened.
"There's a cat and a mouse… playing chess. And a blue-haired woman who just conjured water out of nowhere."
Silence.
"Sir? You copy?"
"…Continue observation," Coulson finally said, voice heavy. "Document everything."
The agent lowered his binoculars, uneasy. This assignment was going to be far stranger than advertised.
Arctic Ocean — S.H.I.E.L.D. Icebreaker
The vessel cut through the frozen waters. Deputy Director Hill stood at the bow, staring at jagged icebergs.
"How far to the target?" she asked.
"Twenty nautical miles," a technician replied. "Glacier scanners are prepped."
"Good. Keep me updated."
Hill's thoughts swirled. Why the sudden interest in this sector? And why was Fury so cagey about the intel source?
"Sir! Signal detected!" the technician shouted.
"Talk to me." Hill strode over.
"Metallic readings inside the glacier, two hundred meters ahead. Composition… unusual. Not standard alloys."
Her pulse quickened. "Show me."
The scanners painted an image on the monitor: a WWII-era aircraft, frozen beneath layers of ice, its silhouette unmistakable despite seventy years underwater.
"My God…" Hill whispered.
A searchlight swept across the cockpit—and the frozen figure inside. Blonde hair. Tall frame. Uniform with a star on the chest.
Hill's breath caught. "Captain America… We've found Steve Rogers."