V.G.D. Global Defense Base — Late Night
The massive alloy blast doors slid apart, hydraulic pistons hissing in the silence.
Antony stepped into the command center.
"Welcome home, sir."
Steve Rogers stood at the main console, posture straight as a drawn blade.
"Drop the ceremony, Steve."
Antony pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto the table, a relaxed smile finally breaking through.
"Looks like you've settled in."
"Better than I expected." Steve glanced toward the night training yard, where recruits were still sweating under floodlights. His gaze softened.
"Less scheming. Fewer lies dressed up as 'necessary for security.' These kids… they're sincere."
"They idolize you," Antony said lightly. "Ashley ran an internal poll. Your approval rating among trainees is almost catching up to mine."
"They just needed direction." Steve met Antony's eyes, earnest and steady.
"Thank you, Antony. For giving them—and me—a place to belong."
Antony smiled back. "Guard it well, and it'll always be home."
He turned toward the exit.
"Get some rest, Captain. I've got personal business to handle."
-----
50 Meters Underground — Cyberdyne T-850 Assembly Line
The elevator plunged. The air cooled. The sharp scent of oil and metal flooded in.
Doors opened.
A colossal subterranean factory stretched out before them—mechanical arms weaving, welding sparks raining down, conveyor belts carrying silver skeletal frames toward completion.
Antony's private armory.
"Welcome back, Mr. Starr," a cold synthetic voice echoed.
"Status report?"
Antony stopped beside a vat where a metal endoskeleton soaked in pink bio-solution. Living skin grew rapidly over cold alloy—indistinguishable from human flesh. For deep-cover purposes, even reproductive functionality had been engineered.
"T-850 production has fully scaled," Skynet reported.
"As instructed, all external parameters are randomized—race, age, physique—perfectly mirroring global human demographic distribution. No two units share identical appearances."
"Good," Antony nodded. "Numbers?"
"Fifty-one units completed. Each loaded with tactical, linguistic, and adaptive human-behavior modules."
"—Ahem."
The sharp click of heels cut in.
Ashley strode up with a tablet, expression grave—the look she wore only when things were serious.
"We need to talk about money."
A holographic ledger flared to life, a red curve screaming upward.
"Per T-850 unit," Ashley said crisply, "including hyper-alloy frame, dual-hydrogen power core, and bio-skin cultivation—costs $10.2 million."
She paused, letting it land.
"At full capacity, annual burn rate hits $37 billion."
Antony raised an eyebrow. "Vought can't afford it?"
"We can," Ashley met his gaze. "But it's pure cash burn. No revenue, no returns. It squeezes our media, film, and expansion budgets. Long-term, it damages the books."
Antony considered this.
"Fair."
He snapped his fingers.
"Skynet, adjust production."
"T-850 standard line: produce 3,000 units, then halt. Switch to maintenance mode."
"Three thousand?" Skynet replied.
"Insufficient for global conquest."
"Did I say conquest?" Antony rolled his eyes.
"If I ever rule, war will be the dumbest way to do it."
"Allocate fifty units to Vought HQ security and subterranean facilities," he continued.
"The rest—release them."
"Release?" Skynet queried.
"Make them people," Antony said calmly.
"Wall Street traders. Capitol Hill interns. Silicon Valley engineers. Even CNN producers."
"Seed them everywhere."
"To achieve perfect integration," Skynet noted, "I must access the global internet to fabricate identities—records, social security, histories."
Ashley's face paled. "You're letting an AI online?! What if it launches nukes?!"
"It won't," Antony said without hesitation. "Approved."
Data streams erupted across the displays.
"Access granted. Identity synthesis in progress. Infiltration protocol active."
"One more thing," Antony added, heading toward a sealed isolation chamber.
"The custom model—is it ready?"
"Completed ten days ago," Skynet replied.
"Built to your specifications. Vibranium-cast skeleton. Enhanced combat and tactical algorithms."
The chamber doors slid open. Cold mist spilled out.
Inside stood a naked man—angular face, hard eyes.
If Steve Rogers were here, he'd recognize that face instantly.
Brock Rumlow.
But this wasn't Rumlow.
This was a T-850.
"Vibranium edition," Antony murmured. "I won't ask the price."
He placed a hand on the construct's shoulder.
"Wake up."
Eyes flared red—then settled into human brown.
The machine bowed its head.
"Commander."
Same voice. Same cadence. Even the swagger was perfect.
"From today on," Antony's voice echoed through the factory, cold and final,
"you are Brock Rumlow."
"Find the original."
A thin smile crossed his face.
"End him. Replace him."
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