"Satisfied now, Rumlow?" Nick Fury slumped in his chair, eyeing Rumlow, who'd returned to the office after purging S.H.I.E.L.D., speaking wearily.
"You won't give the truth to ordinary people, but I will." Rumlow slammed his axe into Fury's desk, sitting on it, staring coldly.
Steve, holding his dented shield, stood silently, wanting to act but unsure what to say. He now understood the conflict's cause. Captain America never feared sacrifice—if it was his own. Knowing the truth, he felt no allegiance to Fury.
"The Council and military are coming. You know what to say. I won't touch the branches—you know my stance," Rumlow said, his eyes threatening.
Fury clutched a pager, hesitating to input a code. Rumlow smirked disdainfully. "S.H.I.E.L.D. still has value, but it must be controlled."
"You already cleaned house. What more do you want?" Fury replied icily, still aching from soul-deep pain.
Bul-Kathos' arrival had stalled Fury's orders, like Barbara contacting Coulson. All agents remained at S.H.I.E.L.D., just cleared by Rumlow. The branches were now under Council and military control, awaiting investigation.
Hill and Dugan were in medical, their injuries severe.
"I'm done as an agent. I'll be a blacksmith's apprentice," Rumlow said, pulling a fresh cigarette pack—Pierce's—from Fury's desk. He stuck one in his mouth. "The Captain needs oversight. He's still the best shield-bearer."
Rumlow wanted to light the cigarette but found no lighter. He didn't smoke before, but now he craved one, curious why Dugan, despite his wounds, stubbornly lit a cigar without a scream. Did tobacco have some magic?
Though Dugan yielded to Fury, he was still respectable.
"I'll testify for you in court and vouch for you," Steve said, stepping forward, removing the cigarette from Rumlow's mouth, speaking earnestly.
"Special Ops Captain Rumlow was killed under Director Fury's brilliant leadership. S.H.I.E.L.D. fought Hydra fiercely, and justice prevailed. Good script, right?" Rumlow said, patting the desk, carefree.
"If you were really dead, that'd be ideal," Fury said coldly.
"My redemption's almost done. When S.H.I.E.L.D.'s restructured, let me know at the forge," Rumlow said. "Oh, and don't forget the NDAs for the surviving agents."
He slapped Steve's shoulder, his tone mocking yet light. "You don't seem like the raging guy from before."
Steve smiled, relieved. "You're just like the propaganda says."
Rumlow grinned, grabbing a bourbon bottle from the cabinet, snapping off the neck, and chugging. "What about Bucky? When're you taking him?"
He handed the bottle to Steve. "Also, clean the forge and settle my 'death' pay—I owe a lawyer."
"I thought the forge was a weapons lab," Steve said, drinking the rest.
"Didn't I say? It's just a forge." Rumlow reached for his axe. With a crack, only the handle remained—the rookie axe had finally broken, a first in barbarian history, worthy of celebration.
"Guess you owe me for a new weapon too," Rumlow said to Fury, whose face darkened as axe fragments hit his head.
"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s funds are tight," Fury replied.
"Cut a few safehouses and secret bases, and you'll have plenty," Rumlow shot back, tossing the handle on the desk and waving goodbye to Steve.
"Consider it payment for my crystal vial, you black-hearted bastard!" Rumlow left the office.
Steve sighed. "Can you fix my shield?" He placed the dented shield on the desk, its damage preventing one-armed use. He'd cut the strap to remove it.
"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s funds are low," Fury said.
"Then skip a couple safehouses," Steve retorted, disliking Fury's methods.
Rumlow reached the elevator, feeling uneasy as he entered.
"Ding!" Melinda May appeared.
"Archives," she said, the elevator moving.
"No weirdos popping up this time, right?" Rumlow muttered.
Silence followed until the elevator neared the archives floor.
"This is personal," Melinda said, slipping on brass knuckles and swinging at Rumlow's gut.
Before the hit landed, the doors opened. "Congrats on surviving and getting your 'redemption,' Rumlow," she said, removing the knuckles and tossing them to him.
"Thanks. Maybe being an agent doesn't suit you. Consider quitting," Rumlow said, catching and returning them.
"I'll think about it." The doors closed.
Rumlow leaned on the railing, whistling.
(End of Chapter)
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