Inside the pod, the Winter Soldier twitched violently. His skin shimmered, then began to change—melting away like wax in fire, reshaped by shadow and power. Dark armor formed over his body, wrapping him in black steel and obsidian mesh, forming a brutal visage: a knight born of war and death.
Seeing the skeletal transformation, Natasha frowned and stepped forward.
"So… this is your idea of redeeming the Winter Soldiers?" she asked, standing protectively in front of Bucky's pod. "Is that what you plan for all of them?"
Michael didn't slow down. "Nope. Just this one," he replied coldly. "This guy was a mass-murderer. His mind was already broken—Hydra had full control over him for years."
He glanced at the armored figure now kneeling silently behind him.
"I was going to kill him. But then I thought, why waste it? He'll make a perfect mindless servant."
Natasha's expression darkened, but she didn't argue. Not yet.
Michael moved on to the next pod, this one frosted over more than the others. Inside was a woman—her body scarred, but her face peaceful in stasis.
He placed his hand on the pod's surface. A dim glow spread from his palm as tendrils of magic and aura read through her memories.
"Let's see what kind of soul you are…" he murmured.
Michael's hand stayed pressed against the frosted pod as his silver eyes slowly narrowed. Flashes of memory flickered in his mind—echoes of bloodshed, cruelty, laughter that chilled the bone.
He saw it all.
A girl no older than seventeen, smiling as she stood over corpses.
Another, humming to herself as she strangled a prisoner with her bare hands.
And again—again—again. Always young, always obedient to Hydra. And always thrilled by the screams of her victims.
Michael let out a cold breath. "She wasn't brainwashed," he said quietly.
Natasha looked at him, her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"She enjoyed it," he said, turning his head slightly toward Natasha but never breaking his focus on the pod. "Killing women. Especially girls. She saw it as a game. Hydra didn't turn her into a monster—they unleashed one."
The pod hissed as the locking mechanisms released with a crack of frost and pressure. The woman inside stirred, but before she could even open her eyes, Michael's power flooded the chamber. Black mist swirled around her, the ground beneath the pod forming cracks as if recoiling from her presence.
Michael's aura deepened—white and silver laced with faint streaks of ghostly blue.
"I won't kill her," he said, voice low, "but I'll make sure she never harms anyone again."
He raised his hand.
From the shadows, pale, spectral tendrils wrapped around her body like a cocoon, lifting her from the pod. Her flesh turned translucent, bluish veins pulsing faintly beneath skin that was no longer alive. Her eyes opened—and they were no longer human.
They glowed white. Empty. Hungry.
Her body hovered, floating just above the ground as her long hair flowed as if underwater, her mouth now curled into a half-smile that sang of madness and death.
"A Banshee," Michael declared. "A wailing ghost bound to my will. Let her voice scream for me now."
The woman let out her first breath—and it came as a chilling, blood-curdling shriek that echoed through the icy walls, making even Natasha flinch.
Natasha turned away for a moment, looking at other three left pods. "You're creating something worse than them."
Michael stepped past her without hesitation. "No," he said. "I'm just giving her a body that match her soul."
Behind him, the Banshee hovered silently, eyes glowing like ghostfire, her chains of spectral energy linking her to Michael's aura like a puppet to its master.
Michael stood before the remaining cryo-pods, mist rising from their frosted glass. The hum of machines echoed faintly beneath the ice and steel of the hidden Hydra chamber. Natasha stayed close now, watching silently—more as an observer than an ally.
He placed his palm against the next pod. His eyes momentarily closed as he slipped into the soldier's memory.
Blood. Fire. Laughter—manic and cruel.
This one was no victim.
Michael's jaw tightened. "He wasn't just Hydra," he muttered. "He was a butcher long before they got him."
The pod cracked open, releasing a sharp hiss. The man inside stirred, wiry and scarred even in stasis. His name flared in Michael's memory.
Anton Krev.
Murderer. Trafficker. Torturer. He didn't fight for a cause—he fought because war gave him permission.
Michael didn't hesitate. His eyes flashed silver.
Darkness surged from his palm, slamming into Anton's chest. His flesh cracked, splintered, and then dissolved into black ash. In his place, a grim figure of bone and armor stood—a silent Death Knight with hollow sockets, red mist bleeding from within.
"Serve," Michael commanded.
The knight bowed its head.
Natasha said nothing this time. She had no defense for monsters like him.
Michael moved to the next pod.
This one… was different.
As he connected, the memories flowed softer. A boy. A sister. A family hiding from Hydra in the forests of Eastern Europe. Soldiers burning the house, dragging him screaming as his parents were executed before him. The boy had begged to die—but Hydra had other plans.
Michael slowly exhaled. "This one… he was just a child when they took him."
The pod hissed open, and the man inside—Drake Vald—gasped sharply, air flooding into lungs that hadn't breathed for years. He looked confused, terrified even.
Michael caught him gently before he fell. "It's alright," he said, tone quieter. "You were used. But you can still choose who you become."
Drake looked up, eyes full of questions—but no madness. No bloodlust. Just pain.
Michael didn't turn him. He didn't need to.
He simply pressed two fingers to the man's temple. A pulse of energy shimmered—and Drake's memories were no longer clouded by Hydra's control.
"You're free," Michael said. "Rest. We'll talk later."
Natasha, watching from the side, blinked—actually surprised.
Michael walked to the last occupied pod.
The name rose in his mind like a whisper: Olivia Belanova.
A soft sadness lingered in Michael's expression as Olivia's memories flowed through him. A soldier. A mother. A woman who had lost everything—her family, her identity—and had been twisted into a weapon by Hydra.
He opened her pod slowly.
With a hiss of cold air, the chamber released her. Olivia collapsed forward, breathing hard, disoriented. Michael caught her gently and placed two fingers to her forehead. A soft pulse of silver energy passed through her.
The corruption—the mental programming, the conditioning—it was all erased.
Olivia blinked, her vision stabilizing. She looked up sharply, wary and confused.
"Who… who are you?" she asked, her voice hoarse but strong. Her eyes darted between Michael and Natasha before landing on someone she recognized.
Her breath caught.
"Drake?" she whispered.
Drake stepped forward, his face filled with cautious hope. "Yes… Olivia. It's me."
She stumbled toward him, emotion crashing over her as he steadied her. "I thought you were dead," she said, gripping his arm like a lifeline.
"I thought the same about you," Drake replied, his voice cracking.
They embraced tightly—two broken people pulled from the dark, finding an anchor in each other.
*******
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