Alexei pressed the red star emblem on the figurine's chest. It lit up immediately, accompanied by a mechanical charging sound that seemed far too sophisticated for a cheap toy.
He noticed a pull-ring on the figure's back and tugged it experimentally.
"The Red Guardian marches forward! The horn calls!" The recorded voice emerged tinny but clear, speaking Russian with authentic Soviet-era propaganda enthusiasm.
Alexei's smile turned bitter. Once, those words had meant something. Once, he'd been the Soviet Union's hope, their answer to Captain America, their symbol of communist superiority. Now he was just a forgotten prisoner listening to a toy parrot his own obsolete glory.
Then the figurine's head popped down with a soft click. Alexei caught it, examining the exposed cavity. Inside sat what looked like a miniature earpiece, black and unremarkable but clearly functional technology.
He glanced around the cell block. The guards were occupied with their endless paperwork, paying him no attention. Moving with casual nonchalance that belied decades of covert operations training, Alexei extracted the earpiece and inserted it into his ear canal.
Natasha's voice came through immediately, crystal clear despite the distance. "Today is your lucky day, Alexei."
Several miles from Deep Well Prison, an armed helicopter cut through Siberian airspace at low altitude, staying below radar coverage. John Wick piloted with mechanical precision, his hands steady on the controls, his expression revealing nothing.
In the passenger compartment, Smith and Natasha sat facing each other. Smith had donned the Scouter.
His mind turned over the combat power problem as the device initialized. He'd been testing a theory about the fundamental difference between Dragon Ball Earth and the Marvel universe. On Dragon Ball Earth, anyone with a power level above five had at least rudimentary ki manipulation, even if unconscious, even if untrained, they could project their life energy outward. That baseline ki usage meant someone with ten points could defend against attacks far exceeding their numerical power level.
But here? In the Marvel universe, ki was almost unknown. Kunlun taught inefficient techniques to a select few. Everyone else, even enhanced individuals with massive physical capabilities, had no idea how to access or utilize their life energy. They were all raw power with no refinement, like trying to dig with a sword instead of a shovel.
The Hand's leaders, trained in Kunlun's techniques despite their corruption, had registered forty to fifty points when operating at full capacity. That tracked with his theory, physical enhancement combined with basic ki manipulation.
Now he wanted to test whether the Red Guardian, supposedly engineered to rival Captain America, showed similar readings.
Smith activated the Scouter's detection mode. Numbers scrolled across the display as it cataloged every life form within range.
5... 6... 5... 4... 6... 7... 40.
There. A single signature blazing at forty points in the heart of the prison complex. Significantly higher than baseline humans, confirming the super-soldier serum's effectiveness.
Smith processed the implications. Normal human maximum sat around eight points. The serum reportedly enhanced users to five times human peak performance. Forty points tracked perfectly with that formula, five times eight equaled forty.
But, and this was crucial, those forty points measured raw physical energy. The Red Guardian had no ki training, no understanding of how to project or focus his life force. He could only leverage brute strength and enhanced durability. His actual combat effectiveness probably didn't exceed a skilled martial artist with nine or ten points who understood proper ki application.
The revelation crystallized something important: ki techniques needed to remain secret. If someone with hundreds or thousands of points of raw physical energy learned proper ki manipulation, they'd become truly terrifying. But as long as they remained ignorant, their destructive output stayed manageable. A person with a thousand points of untrained energy might only manifest a hundred points of actual damage, still dangerous, but within parameters Smith could handle.
Natasha watched Smith with obvious curiosity, her eyes tracking the scrolling numbers on the Scouter's display. She didn't understand what she was seeing, couldn't read the energy signatures or comprehend the measurements, but clearly recognized advanced technology when she encountered it.
Smith tapped the Scouter, confirming Alexei's location, then nodded to Natasha.
She activated her communication link. "Alexei, this is Natasha Romanoff."
She'd deliberately used her real name rather than an alias. Alexei would remember, she'd been his "daughter" during that three-year operation in Ohio, before her Red Room conditioning had been fully reinforced. The name would carry weight, would trigger memories that might overcome suspicion.
"Head to the door in the south wall. We'll extract you from there."
In his cell, Alexei processed the voice, the name, the impossible situation. Natasha Romanoff, the girl who'd played his eldest daughter during the Ohio mission. He hadn't thought about her in years, had assumed she was either dead or still trapped in the Red Room's machinery.
Why was she contacting him now? Was this Dreykov's doing, some elaborate test or punishment? Or was it genuine? An actual escape opportunity after decades of imprisonment?
Alexei's survival instinct made the decision for him. Test or not, this might be his only chance to leave this frozen hell. He'd take it.
He set down the figurine gently, then stood and walked directly to the guard station. The guard looked up, irritation crossing his face at the interruption.
"What do you want, Shostakov?"
"Can't you read?" Alexei's fist punched through the reinforced glass like it was tissue paper. "Back. Off."
He grabbed the guard's collar through the shattered window, yanked him forward hard enough to crack his skull against the frame, then reached through to disable the second guard with an economical blow to the temple.
"Left," Natasha's voice directed through the earpiece. "Try not to make too much noise."
The prison alarm screamed to life before Alexei had taken three steps.
Other inmates, realizing what was happening, began shouting: "The Red Guardian is escaping! The Red Guardian is breaking out!"
A squad of guards materialized, blocking his path to the south corridor. They carried riot shields and electrified batons, arraying themselves in practiced formation designed to contain enhanced prisoners.
It wasn't enough.
Alexei waded through them like they were children. His fists crumpled riot shields, his shoulders sent grown men flying into walls hard enough to crack concrete. Forty points of super-soldier enhanced strength made him effectively unstoppable against baseline humans with standard equipment.
He grabbed one guard's shield, used it to club three others into unconsciousness, then wedged it into the corridor gate's mechanism when more guards tried to follow. The metal bent and locked, buying him precious seconds.
"You're making quite a bit of noise, aren't you?" Natasha's voice carried dry amusement.
Smith, listening through the communication link, smiled. "More than a bit. Everyone in the facility knows the Red Guardian is attempting escape."
Alexei kicked through the final security door, bursting into the exercise yard. Siberian cold hit him like a physical force, negative temperatures, endless white snow, guard towers bristling with automated defenses and spotlights that were already swiveling toward his position.
"Now what?" Alexei asked, his breath fogging in the arctic air.
"We're coming for you," Natasha replied. "Look up."
Alexei tilted his head back. The helicopter hovered perhaps two hundred feet overhead, too high for practical extraction but clearly positioning for approach.
In the helicopter, Smith assessed the situation rapidly. More guards poured into the exercise yard with each passing second. Alexei could fight them, his power level guaranteed short-term success, but the prison had automated defense systems. Machine gun emplacements, possibly even surface-to-air capabilities if they classified this as a full breach.
Natasha could handle a rope extraction under normal circumstances. But these weren't normal circumstances.
"I know you're capable," Smith said, standing and moving toward the cargo door. "But this is taking too long, and the risk level keeps climbing."
He grabbed the door handle. "I'll handle it personally."
He yanked the door open and stepped into open air.
"Wait!" Natasha lunged for a parachute pack. "You don't have a chute!"
John Wick's voice came flat, almost amused. "The boss doesn't need that kind of thing."
Natasha rushed to the open door, looking down just in time to see Smith Doyle hovering in midair. Not falling. Not deploying any visible propulsion system.
Then he accelerated downward, moving with purpose toward Alexei's position.
"Oh my God," Natasha whispered. "He can actually fly."
John Wick kept his eyes forward, hands steady on the controls, but his voice carried absolute conviction. "I don't know why the boss chose to help you. But you need to understand something, he's beyond anything you've encountered. Beyond SHIELD's capabilities. Beyond conventional understanding."
He paused, then added quietly: "The boss is God. Or close enough that the difference doesn't matter."
Natasha turned to study John Wick's profile. He'd only joined the Fraternity recently according to her intelligence, a few months at most. Yet he already spoke of Smith Doyle with the reverent certainty of a true believer. Not respect. Not professional admiration. Genuine worship.
What had John Wick seen that inspired such absolute faith? What capabilities had Smith displayed to transform a legendary assassin into a devoted apostle?
Natasha looked back down at Smith's descending form, watching him maneuver through the air with practiced ease, and wondered exactly what kind of power she'd agreed to ally herself with.
Below, Alexei stared upward at the impossible sight of a man flying without assistance, and for the first time in decades, the Red Guardian allowed himself to believe in something resembling hope.