Boom—
The armored suit drove its fist forward. The twelve-inch steel plating dented inward instantly.
The suit paused, assessed the damage—then deployed the twin breaching rams from its forearms.
BOOM!
Both spikes punched straight through the reinforced steel. The tips began spinning at high speed, generating intense heat. Metal shrieked as it was torn apart, molten edges dripping downward. Within seconds, a man-sized opening had been carved through the vault wall.
The suit stepped inside.
Racks of weapons lined the chamber, but Tony had no interest in any of them.
At the far end sat a large metallic case, isolated and secure.
The armor opened it.
Inside lay the Falcon flight pack.
"That's it," Sam murmured, eyes clouded with memory. "Can't believe it's still in this condition."
Once, it had been his closest partner. After retirement, it had existed only in dreams.
"Target secured. Awaiting extraction orders," JARVIS reported.
"Pull out," Tony said casually. "Nothing else worth taking."
Under heavy gunfire from base personnel, the suits launched skyward. One streaked toward D.C., carrying the case. The rest ascended vertically, vanishing back toward orbit.
---
Twenty minutes later—just as breakfast wrapped up—a red-and-gold suit landed outside Sam's house.
"Delivery complete, sir," JARVIS announced.
Sam opened the door.
The Iron Man suit stood there, holding the large silver case.
Sam stared at it… then at the armor.
"Okay," he admitted, "the jetpack suddenly feels less impressive."
Real men piloted machines like that.
No wonder Tony called the pack a toy.
He took the case. The suit immediately launched back into the sky.
---
Meanwhile, outside an upscale restaurant—
Agent Sitwell stepped out beside the overweight senator. Security personnel gathered around them.
"Appreciate the recommendation, Sitwell," the senator said. "I know what to do next."
"Nice lapel pin," he added, adjusting the insignia on Sitwell's suit.
"Thank you, Senator."
They embraced briefly.
"Hail HYDRA," both whispered into the other's ear.
After the senator departed, Sitwell's phone rang.
Caller ID: Alexander Pierce.
He dismissed his bodyguards and answered.
"Sir?"
"Agent Sitwell," came a cheerful male voice. "Enjoy your lunch?"
Sitwell stiffened. That was not Pierce's voice.
"Who is this? What do you want?"
"Look to your right. The handsome guy in sunglasses."
Sitwell turned.
Across the street, at an outdoor café, Sam sat casually with one leg crossed, raising a hand in greeting.
"What do you want?" Sitwell demanded.
"Simple. Walk to the corner of the building on your right. There's a car waiting."
Sam gestured lazily.
"Why would I?"
"By the way," Sam added lightly, "that tie doesn't match your suit."
He hung up.
Sitwell looked down.
A red laser dot glowed on his chest.
Panic flashed across his face as he searched for the source.
High above, Tony hovered in midair, palm raised. A targeting module embedded in his wrist tracked Sitwell precisely.
"You guys couldn't handle this yourselves?" Tony muttered over comms. "It's a laser pointer job."
"Quit complaining," Steve replied. "Proceed to extraction."
---
Sitwell reached the building corner.
Before he could identify the vehicle—
His body lifted violently into the air.
He shot upward toward the rooftop.
THUD.
He landed hard on the roof.
Steve, Natasha, Karl, and Sam were already waiting.
"Tell me everything about Zola's algorithm," Steve said, advancing.
Sitwell scrambled up, backing away.
"I've never heard of it."
"What were you doing on that ship?" Steve pressed.
"I was seasick! I was throwing up!"
He reached the roof's edge.
Karl shrugged.
"Called it."
Without hesitation, he kicked Sitwell off the building.
"Villains never talk the first time."
Several seconds later—
Metal wings burst upward from below.
Sam soared into view, released a screaming Sitwell onto the rooftop, and circled once like a falcon before landing. The mechanical wings folded neatly into the compact backpack.
Sitwell collapsed to the ground, trembling violently. His gold-rimmed glasses were gone. He looked ready to faint.
Tony landed beside them, eyeing the pack.
"Not bad. When this is over, I'll upgrade it for you. Free of charge."
"That'd be great," Sam said. "It's a little tight. Stability's not perfect either."
After years away, flying again felt intoxicating.
Natasha crouched in front of Sitwell.
"Ready to talk? This is your only chance."
"I'll talk!" Sitwell gasped. "Zola's algorithm—it's a program. It identifies and selects targets for Project Insight."
"What targets?" Steve demanded.
"You… a senator… the Deputy Secretary of Defense… him…" Sitwell pointed shakily at Karl, then Tony, then Natasha. "Anyone who could threaten HYDRA. Now—or in the future."
"Future?" Steve frowned. "How can you predict that?"
He glanced briefly at Karl.
Sitwell gave a pale, almost hysterical laugh.
"Captain Rogers… this is the twenty-first century. Every person is data. Everything is numbers. Bank records. Medical history. Emails. Calls. Messages. Childhood reports. Political leanings. Purchasing habits…"
He forced himself upright, voice trembling.
"Zola's algorithm reads the patterns. It calculates probabilities. Who might resist. Who might inspire others. Who might become a problem."
His breathing steadied slightly.
"Project Insight doesn't wait for enemies to act."
He looked up at them, eyes hollow.
"It eliminates them before they ever get the chance."
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