She saw it—a shell engraved with the Stark Industries logo, lying silently among the rubble, unexploded.
Then, a calm voice echoed deep within her consciousness.
"You hate the Starks because you believe our weapons killed your parents.
But have you ever truly thought about it? Who actually pulled the trigger?
Is it the blacksmith's fault for forging the knife, or the madman's fault for committing murder with it?
Our parents were killed by a HYDRA assassin. They brainwashed that man, but I chose to kill him—and then destroy HYDRA."
"We've never denied the sins of Stark Industries.
But Tony has spent years atoning for them through action.
You, on the other hand, chose to let HYDRA—the real butchers—use you as their weapon, directing your hatred at the wrong people."
"Yes, we built those weapons.
If you want revenge, you can take it anytime.
I won't stop you."
"But wake up, kid.
Don't let hatred blind you anymore."
"Ahhhh!!!"
A piercing scream ripped from Wanda's throat as she tore herself free from the psychic world.
Her body plummeted like a kite with its string cut, falling rapidly toward the ground.
The tidal wave of memories and emotions had completely shattered her already fragile mind.
Just as she was about to hit the floor, a dark figure appeared beneath her, catching her gently in his arms.
"I told you... don't play with fire."
Henry sighed softly, looking down at the unconscious Wanda in his arms, her energy completely drained.
He shook his head helplessly.
When he looked into her eyes—still half-open in confusion and pain—he could only sigh again.
Across the lab, Tony finally broke free from the energy interference.
He glanced around the now-quiet laboratory—only to see his younger brother calmly holding the same girl who had just tried to kill him.
Beneath his armor, Tony's lips twitched uncontrollably.
"Fuck!" he yelled over the comms.
"Henry Stark, you son of a bitch! I'm over here getting blasted to hell for you, and you're over there flirting?!
Ever heard of something called teamwork, huh?!"
Henry didn't even look back—he just raised one hand and flipped Tony the middle finger.
"Shut up, Tony," he said lazily.
"I'm conducting post-battle psychological therapy.
A very professional, highly technical procedure.
Something a rich idiot like you—who only knows how to solve problems with money—could never understand."
Tony: "...???"
Wait a damn second—
Isn't that supposed to be my line?!
Henry ignored him, adjusting Wanda's position slightly so she could rest more comfortably in his arms, before turning his cold gaze toward the far corner of the lab.
"Well then..." his tone shifted, calm turning to steel.
"It's time to clean up the last piece of trash."
Tony cursed under his breath as he flew over, armor clanking as he landed beside Henry.
His faceplate slid open, revealing his scowling face.
"Post-battle therapy, huh? You call that therapy?" Tony shot Wanda a glance—pale, unconscious, limp in Henry's arms—and rolled his eyes.
"Looks a lot more like you're taking advantage of her.
Just so you know, under the Geneva Conventions, inappropriate contact with incapacitated enemy personnel is a serious war crime."
"First of all," Henry replied, tightening his hold slightly to keep Wanda steady, then looking up with the expression of a man explaining basic math to a toddler,
"she's not an enemy right now—at most, she's a victim.
Second, since when do you care about the Geneva Conventions?
Weren't you shouting about twisting everyone's heads off like, what, two minutes ago?
Pretty sure the preface of that treaty doesn't include a clause saying 'neck twisting is permitted.'"
Tony opened his mouth—then closed it again.
For once, he had nothing to say.
"That was psychological warfare!" Tony blurted finally.
"It's called tactical intimidation! Mental suppression! You wouldn't understand!"
"And besides—I didn't actually do it! You saw me! I'm civilized!
Unlike you, Mister Kick-their-heads-off-their-bodies—brutal, savage, zero artistic sense!"
"Sure, sure," Henry nodded absently. "You're the pinnacle of civilization."
Still holding Wanda, he walked toward the crumpled heap that had once been Baron Strucker.
"So, oh civilized one—what do you want to do with this trash?"
Strucker was in miserable shape.
When Henry had thrown him earlier, the impact had shattered who-knows-how-many bones. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. His monocle was shattered.
He looked like a squashed cockroach.
Tony crossed his arms, staring down with a smirk that reeked of mockery.
"Well, well, look at our esteemed Baron," Tony sneered.
"Not exactly the picture of HYDRA nobility anymore, huh?
Didn't you promise me immortality? Funny—you look about two minutes away from meeting Red Skull."
Strucker coughed violently, eyes flickering open.
Hatred and fear swirled in his cloudy gaze as he rasped, "You... you'll regret this... HYDRA... cannot be killed... Cut off one head... and two shall—"
"Oh, spare me the MLM slogan," Henry interrupted with a sigh, kicking Strucker lightly in the leg.
"You guys sound like a bunch of cockroaches who think repeating the same line will make you immortal. All it does is make people nauseous."
Tony crouched down, bringing his face to eye level with Strucker. His expression lost all humor—his eyes were cold, sharp, and merciless.
"Well, we've got plenty of time to play," Tony said softly.
"But before we send you off to meet your old friends... I've got a few questions."
He raised his armored hand. A thin arc of electricity flickered from his fingertip as he pressed it lightly against Strucker's forehead.
"Tell me—what exactly were you researching in this base?
Aside from these two 'miracles,' how many enhanced humans have you made?
And how many more secret labs like this are you hiding around the world?"
"I... I won't tell you... anything..." Strucker hissed through bloody teeth, a deranged grin twisting his face.
"You'll get... nothing... from me... Hail... HYDRA..."
Henry nodded slowly, tone thoughtful.
"Stubborn one, huh? Gotta admire that backbone."
Then he raised two fingers, expression darkening.
"Thing is, when it comes to stubborn bones... I've got two ways of dealing with them."
He paused, smiling faintly—but his smile was cold, cruel.
"Option one: crush them into powder and feed them to the dogs."
"Option two..."
His grin widened, feral.
"Rip them out one by one and turn them into art.
Hang them on the wall as a reminder to everyone else... what happens when you overestimate yourself."
Strucker's pupils contracted sharply.
The terror that followed wasn't just fear—it was the collapse of faith itself.
"You... you can't..."
"Oh, we can," Tony said flatly.
***
If you're interested and wish to support me, you can read advanced chapters:
p-atreon.com/Redestro666