Although Michael was acting nonchalant, he was actually slightly impressed. Natasha's flight suit was composed of nanobots that could shift into armor or weapons at will.
'It seems my presence is pushing this world to evolve faster than expected,' Michael thought as he turned his gaze ahead,continuing towards the location of the old HYDRA Siberian facility—the one that once housed the Winter Soldier.
The snowstorm had begun to ease as Michael and Natasha landed several hundred meters away from a jagged, icy ridge. Behind it, camouflaged expertly against the snowy terrain, stood a facility—aged, weather-worn, but still intact. It was half-buried in frost and stone, its structure seemingly carved into the mountain itself.
Natasha narrowed her eyes, her breath visible in the freezing air. Her visor scanned the structure ahead as she tapped a few commands into her wrist-mounted computer.
"No data?" Michael asked, not bothering to hide the smirk on his lips.
She shook her head. "Nothing. SHIELD's archives don't show any installation out here."
Michael gave a low chuckle. "It'd be weird if SHIELD did have data on it and hadn't destroyed it, don't you think?"
Natasha turned to look at him, frowning. "What is it?"
Michael took a step forward, his boots crunching in the snow. He raised a hand and pointed toward the half-buried complex.
"HYDRA," he said simply.
Natasha's face hardened. "That's impossible. HYDRA's dead."
Michael shrugged. "Then what do you call that?"
Natasha followed his gaze and spotted a narrow, nearly hidden entrance partially obscured by the snow and rock. But it wasn't the structure itself that made her stop.
It was the faded red logo stamped on the metal panel just beside it—a coiled octopus with outstretched tentacles.
"Is that really… HYDRA?" she muttered, her voice tight.
"I always thought whoever designed their branding had a brain disease. Kraken imagery? Really?"
Michael then added. "Though I guess even genocidal cults need a good logo."
Natasha glanced sideways at him, frowning. Even now, he's cracking jokes?
Michael straightened. "Anyway, let's go. I'm here to take something from them."
He stepped forward, preparing to move around the ridge—when suddenly, the faint hum of a scope targeting system beeped in the distance.
A red dot blinked on Michael's chest.
Bang!
The shot rang out like thunder. But it never hit.
The bullet froze mid-air—caught in a thin, invisible film of Michael's aura. Time slowed as snowflakes hovered like suspended glass shards.
Michael raised a finger lazily, flicked it forward, and with that motion, one tiny snowflake accelerated—piercing through the air faster than any bullet.
From across the ridge came a faint thud—followed by silence.
A sniper dropped, blood blooming into the snow.
A second sniper tried to reposition. He didn't get far.
Another flick—another flash of light—and he fell just as swiftly.
Michael didn't even look in their direction. He just exhaled and muttered, "Pity. I'm not just human anymore."
Natasha blinked, impressed despite herself.
"Remind me not to piss you off," she said under her breath.
Michael just kept walking, the snow crunching beneath his boots.
Natasha jogged forward, catching up to Michael as he stepped over a snowbank without breaking stride.
"Two snipers dead before they even got a chance to breathe," she muttered, checking the terrain with a quick sweep of her wrist-mounted scanner. "This place is active. Which means—"
"—someone's still running it," Michael finished.
They made their way down a hidden path between jagged rocks, the trail narrowing as it led toward a sloped entrance partially buried under ice and snow. Old camouflage netting fluttered in the cold wind—worn, but not abandoned.
Natasha stopped beside the entrance and tapped into her wrist computer again. "Still nothing in the SHIELD archives about this place. No coordinates, no blueprints, no mentions. It doesn't exist."
Michael chuckled quietly, brushing snow off a faded metal panel. "As I said, would be strange if SHIELD had data on this and didn't destroy it. Or…" he glanced over his shoulder, smirking, "maybe they do—and just didn't tell you."
Natasha frowned. "You're saying SHIELD is hiding Hydra remnants?"
Michael didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The implication hung heavy in the frozen air.
Natasha's frown deepened. "No. That would mean…"
She didn't finish her sentence.
But Michael already knew what she was thinking—what he wanted her to realize on her own.
That SHIELD wasn't clean.
That remnants of HYDRA still slithered in its veins.
Michael placed his palm on the panel. White energy pulsed softly under his skin, and the mechanism clicked. The hidden door began to slide open with a groan of frozen steel.
From inside came only silence and cold breath.
"Stay sharp," Michael said.
They stepped inside—descending into the dark corridor beyond, leaving behind the white paradise and entering the long-forgotten lungs of a sleeping monster.
As Michael and Natasha moved deeper into the facility, the hallway lights—dim and flickering—buzzed to life with erratic pulses. Dust hung in the air, disturbed for the first time in years. Natasha's fingers twitched near her holsters, senses sharpened.
Michael walked ahead, unconcerned, like he owned the place.
And maybe, in a way, he did.
Suddenly, the air shifted.
A high-pitched alarm echoed through the metal halls, followed by the clatter of boots.
From the shadows ahead, doors burst open, and a Hydra strike unit stormed out—dozens of them in black tactical gear, faces hidden behind old-world gas masks and red lenses glowing faintly. Their weapons were raised in perfect unison.
"OPEN FIRE!"
Muzzle flashes lit up the corridor like a strobe light.
Michael didn't flinch.
The bullets didn't even touch him. A field of dark silver aura pulsed out, bending space around him. Natasha dove to the side behind a support beam, eyes wide—not at the bullets, but at him.
Michael stepped forward as the storm of gunfire ceased in stunned confusion.
And then?
He raised his hand.
Dark energy coiled from his palm, deep as the void—his Lord of Death power radiating through the facility like a chill of the grave. The ground cracked. The walls groaned.
And then the soldiers began to scream.
Not from pain—but from what came next.
Corpses—long-dead from cryo-chambers, old experiments, guards who had perished in silence—rose. Their flesh peeled away in an instant, reduced to bleached bone. Glowing sigils etched into their skulls and ribcages as Michael's necrotic aura enveloped them.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Fifty skeletal soldiers stood tall, eyes burning with cold blue fire.
They turned to Michael.
He gave a single nod.
And they charged.
The Hydra soldiers opened fire again, but it was hopeless. Bones moved like phantoms, cutting through the living like reapers through wheat. Blades formed from ether. Bullets bounced from bone. Limbs broke. Screams echoed.
Within minutes, only silence remained.
Natasha stepped out slowly, scanning the aftermath. Not a single enemy remained standing. The floor was painted in ruin—but the skeletons stood still, lined like an honor guard.
They turned, one by one, and bowed to Michael.
He walked forward through the remains, utterly calm. Natasha followed behind him, trying to process what she'd seen.
*******
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