M117- More Popsicle

Sitting with the gang, Sofia suddenly perked up. “Found them.”

Nero walked over, eyes on her screen. The location popped up with a blinking red dot on the map.

“Mount Elbrus,” she said, spinning the laptop for everyone to see. “Deep in the frost zone, beneath what looks like an old Soviet comms tower. Place is marked Facility K-13.”

Nero narrowed his eyes at the coordinates. “They buried it under a collapsed radar station?”

“Yup,” Sofia replied, tapping a few keys. “Whole place is covered in anti-satellite cloaking and EM scramblers. If you hadn’t told me what to look for, I’d still be scanning Siberia.”

Sofia scrolled further. “This base’s been operational since the Cold War. The shield tech’s modern though. Someone’s been maintaining it.”

Donald glanced over. “You said they’ve got Super Soldiers?”

Nero nodded. "They keep Captain Popsicle’s friends, Bucky and the rest, there. I wasn’t sure if it was active in this world too, so I told Sofia to keep an eye on it a while back. Turns out they’re still playing with Dead Sons.”

Maria tilted her head. “Dead Sons?”

Nigel leaned forward a bit, thinking. “I think I heard something like that a while ago. Before...” His eyes flicked to Nero. “Before the Principe Family got betrayed by Kingpin. Capo’s friend mentioned having a channel to hire one of the deadly weapons.”

Nero nodded. “Dead Sons are enhanced assassins, but not just the brainwashed kind. They’re former soldiers, spies, sometimes even failed heroes. Put through the wringer until their minds cracked, then reshaped into perfect killers. They get wiped, programmed, sent out, and stashed again until someone pays to use them.”

Anthony frowned. “Like Cap, but a whole roster of him?”

“Exactly,” Nero said. “Different abilities, different backgrounds, same endgame.”

“So HYDRA?” Diego asked, barely interested in who the next punching bag was.

Sofia nodded, still scrolling through data. “Base is old, but protection’s new. They added a lot of current tech—drone grid, anti-magic fields, energy dampeners. Looks like they’re prepping for more than just a prison.”

Donald leaned over, squinting. “They expecting someone like us?”

Sofia tapped the side of her laptop. “Doesn’t say, but given the layers of defense, someone tipped them off about powered threats. I had to brute-force my way in through a disguised weather satellite just to get these files. My guess, after shutting down all those HYDRA bases, we scared them off.”

Nero didn’t look concerned. “Only hard part was finding it. That’s done. Now we burn it down and take what’s inside.”

Maria looked over. “You want the Dead Sons alive?”

“If they’re fixable,” Nero said. “If not, they die with Ivan Chertov.”

Anthony folded his arms. “Who?”

Nero explained with a nod to the screen, “The Shepherd. Lead handler. Ex-KGB, now HYDRA’s wet work director. He oversees the Dead Sons program.”

Diego stretched, cracking his knuckles. “So we’re hitting a bunker full of super-assassins, a psycho general, and enough tech to short-circuit Sorella’s mood swings.”

[Sorella is perfectly stable, you insufferable flirt.]

He grinned. “Even the System hates me. Nice.”

Nigel adjusted the edge of the map on the table. “Any known escape routes?”

Sofia highlighted two on the screen. “One emergency tunnel, heads northwest under the ridge. Another leads into a frozen reservoir—probably for ventilation. Both are narrow.”

Donald shook his head. “So we either crawl through ice water or risk suffocating in a pipe.”

“Or we go loud,” Anthony said. “Less subtle, but faster. They won’t expect it if they think their cloaking works.”

Nero started walking toward the hangar hallway, already pulling on his jacket. “Prepare the jet, Nigel. There’s no need for hesitation. We blast the front door.”

The silence that followed said enough.

Diego blinked. “Sorry, hold on. Did I hear ‘Nigel’ and ‘jet’ in the same sentence?”

Sofia didn’t even look up. “You did.”

Anthony gave her a look. “And you’re not panicking?”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “Just accepted death as inevitable.”

Maria glanced at Nigel. “You’re really flying us through Soviet airspace in winter?”

Nigel shrugged. “Why not? I land you every time, and you still moan about it.”

Donald muttered something under his breath about frostbite and stupidity. “That’s not flying. That’s assisted suicide.”

Diego flopped backward on the couch, groaning. “We’re gonna crash into a mountain and get eaten by wolves. I can feel it.”

“Wolves won’t want you,” Sofia said. “You’re all skin and drama.”

“I have excellent flavor,” Diego shot back. “Premium marbling.”

Anthony grabbed his coat. “Shut up and suit up. We’re not letting that base stay standing.”

“Easy for you to say,” Diego muttered. “You don’t have flight trauma.”

“You’ve never had flight trauma,” Donald pointed out.

“Because I delete those memories after every sub-zero jet stream,” Diego replied. “That’s where trauma starts, don't keep them.”

Nigel didn’t respond. He was already halfway to the hangar. Pulled his captain hat out of nowhere, "Move already."

Diego pointed at him like he’d just witnessed a magic trick. “Where the hell is he hiding that?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” Sofia said, already packing up her gear.

They moved out fast. Everyone grabbed their stuff, and within the hour, they were on the jet, strapped in. The engines roared louder than Diego’s complaints, which meant Nigel was really pushing it.

The flight was long, loud, and somewhere between turbulence and war crime. At one point, Donald audibly recited a prayer in Old Norse, eyes closed like he’d accepted the end. Diego passed out halfway, possibly from fear, possibly from the flask he’d been sipping.

When they finally touched down, it didn’t look like a landing. It looked like gravity gave up halfway and just let them crash in slow motion. A few alarms screamed, Donald might’ve screamed louder. But when the jet finally skidded to a stop, everything was intact. Barely.

The gang unbuckled like people who’d been in a blender. Diego stumbled out, looking pale. “I saw a bird explode mid-air. Mid. Air.”

Sofia stepped over him. “I saw your soul leave your body.”

Donald rolled his shoulders. “I’ll check our bones later. I think my spine inverted at some point.”

Nigel strolled past them, fixing his collar like he’d just parked a car. “You’re alive. Stop whining.”

Anthony kicked open the side hatch. “Where are we?”

Nero didn’t even try to hide it. He stood by the ramp, arms crossed, watching his crew struggle to stand like newborn foals. Then came the laughter. Loud, unapologetic, five minutes of it straight, only pausing to gasp for air and continue.

Donald sat on the jet floor, hand gripping a steel rail like it owed him child support. “He’s laughing. He’s fucking laughing.”

Nero wiped at his eye. “Ah, it was a delightful flight.”

No one joined in.

“Delightful?” Donald muttered. “I aged six years. I think I have frostbite in places I didn’t know existed.”

Anthony stood still, deadpan. “You’re lucky that bird didn’t come through the windshield.”

“It exploded!” Diego yelled from the snow, where he had collapsed like a man swatted out of existence. “It popped in front of the cockpit! Just—feathers and trauma!”

Maria stepped over him. “You should’ve gone through the windshield. It would’ve shut you up.”

“I have rights!” Diego protested, trying and failing to sit up.

Sofia ignored him completely, checking the signal jammers on her wrist device. “Hydra’s quiet. No alerts tripped. We landed far enough that their perimeter sensors didn’t ping.”

Nero stretched, rolling his neck once. “We’re a bit away from the base. When we arrive, we go silent first. Maria will use Mist Flame to hide us. After that, we kill HYDRA.”

Donald stood now, still muttering. “Of course we do. No rest. No coffee. Straight to the murder.”

“We improvise later.” Nero pulled his mask from his coat, held it up. “Masks on. It’s time for the Seven Masked Vigilantes to appear again.”

Sofia slipped hers on without comment. Anthony adjusted his casually. Maria already had hers ready, half-finished smirk underneath. Diego held his dramatically.

“I look forward to this moment every time,” he said, slipping the mask on like he was starring in a noir film.

“Then maybe stop whining before every mission,” Sofia replied.

“Let me have flair,” Diego muttered.

Nigel walked past them, already fully geared, slamming the back hatch shut with a boot.

They moved fast. No talking now. Trees thinned as the wind picked up. Snow didn’t fall gently—it bit, slapped, drilled into skin and fiber, but no one complained.

Within fifteen minutes, they were on the ridge overlooking the buried comms tower.

“Facility K-13,” Sofia whispered, pulling the sensor scope over her eye. “Four watch points. Two roving patrols. Standard cloak grid flickers every ninety seconds. Shield’s weak on the north exit vent.”

Maria exhaled, eyes glowing faintly. Mist crawled over them, soft and slow, coating their movements in blur and breath. Within seconds, the group vanished from sensors and from sight.

Nero pointed to Anthony and Donald. “Go around. Take north and east.”

They split off without a word.

“Nigel, Sofia, west tower.”

Sofia checked her belt. “I’ve got signal disruptors.”

Nigel took them with a nod.

Diego stood beside Nero, hand tapping his thigh. “I’m your plus one?”

“You’re cannon fodder if this goes wrong.”

“I always knew you loved me.”

Nero’s eyes didn’t move from the facility. “Let’s go.”

They moved as shadows. Mist crept with them, curling around sensors, jamming visuals. HYDRA’s tech couldn’t adapt—too reliant on pattern recognition.

Nero, Maria and Diego reached the southern edge, where two guards paced near a buried entrance. The guards didn’t even see the first hit. Diego took one down with a knife to the neck; Nero caught the other mid-turn, crushed his windpipe and let him fall in the snow.

They hauled the bodies into the snowbank, covered by Maria’s mist.

“Silent and stylish,” Diego whispered.

“Stylish doesn’t leave a footprint.” Nero nodded to the snow, which was already smoothing itself out behind Maria’s veil.

Elsewhere, Anthony crushed the neck of a roving soldier while Donald injected another with a lance of lightning that dropped him mid-step.

“Two clear,” Donald said through the comm.

Sofia’s voice followed. “West tower’s fried. Drones are blind.”

Nero heard the hissing of hydraulics. They were in.

The vault hissed open, cold air pouring out like a corpse exhaling.

The hall inside was tight, lined with exposed cables and rusted steel. No sirens. No movement.

Sofia scanned ahead with the signal tool. “Turrets off. I’m tapping their internal schematics.”

They moved deeper.

Posters in Russian lined the walls—faded patriotism, crumbling slogans.

They quickly dealt with any watcher by the time Sofia took over their network, and they met inside once again to charge further.

Anthony stepped over a twitching body, still holding his knife low. “South wing’s clear.”

Sofia was already on her second terminal, seated half-sideways on a tipped-over crate. “Rewiring their cameras now. Gonna feed their own patrols back to them on loop. If they review any footage, they’ll see boring hallway walks. No team of masked intruders, no murders, just another uneventful shift.”

“Do the bodies count as uneventful?” Diego asked, poking one with his boot.

Maria smacked the back of his head as she walked past. “They will if you shut up and help hide them.”

He grumbled something vague about artistic disrespect, but moved.

Nero gestured forward, not bothering to speak. They followed the path, staying low where necessary, passing flickering lights and echoing pipes. Every so often, metal groaned. It wasn’t atmospheric—it was decay.

Sofia’s voice broke the silence. “They built this place like a coffin.”

Diego scoffed. “Big talk from someone sitting in one and typing like it’s a spa.”

“You want me to leave the doors locked?” she asked.

“Please,” he said. “I look great in enclosed spaces.”

Anthony didn’t even glance back. “Shut up, Diego.”

They passed another hallway lined with shattered glass—some broken from age, some from bullets. Donald knelt by a cracked panel, ran a finger along it.

“Recent,” he said. “Week old. Not ours.”

Nero barely glanced. “Dead Sons sparring, maybe. Or a test subject who didn’t like the basement.”

Maria stopped by a locker wedged in the wall, yanked it open without effort. Inside were syringes, tools, a worn set of restraints.

Nigel peered in, then kept walking. “I know torture gear when I see it. I’m not impressed.”

“Old tech,” Sofia added. “They’re keeping up security, but the conditioning tools are Cold War vintage.”

“Hard to break minds with Wi-Fi these days,” Donald muttered.

When Sofia gave the go, they didn’t waste a breath. Everyone moved.

Nero ducked under a pipe, signaled left. Maria took point. Diego flanked. The rest scattered across the corridors, sweeping fast, cutting down resistance as they went. Whatever guards were stationed here weren’t ready. A few startled yells, the thud of bodies hitting concrete, then silence again.

They cleared three junctions before Sofia called out, “South lower floor. Third level. It’s got a triple-layer lock. Bio, code, manual.”

“Dead Sons?” Nero asked, already moving.

“Inside,” she confirmed. “Their vitals just spiked on the internal med scan. Someone’s panicking.”

Diego grinned. “Time to knock.”

Nero didn’t slow down. “Keep it tight. No monologues. No screw-ups.”

Anthony and Donald had already cleared the side corridors by the time they reached the steel vault door. Maria checked the panel. “Standard HYDRA biometric. Sofia?”

“Two minutes,” came the reply, already working.

“Two minutes too long,” Diego muttered, checking behind them.

Nero looked at the panel, then at Donald. “You said lightning breaks locks?”

Donald didn’t argue. “Step back.”

One pulse later, the panel sparked and died. Sofia clicked her tongue. “I had two seconds left.”

“We don’t pay you for patience,” Maria replied.

“You don’t pay me at all.”

The door groaned, thick hydraulics screaming as it opened. Air hissed out like the room had been sealed too long. Inside—rows of chambers. Six in total. Four closed, two cracked open. Dim red lights, condensation clinging to the glass.

“They’re frozen?” Diego whispered.

“Suspended,” Donald corrected, moving closer. “Low-temp cryo. They’re breathing. Just slowed.”

Nero walked ahead. “We can take them later. Let them nap. Clear the rest first.”

He didn’t wait. Turned the corner before anyone replied. Diego glanced at the frozen pods like they might wake up and start a musical, then jogged after him.

Maria moved next, silent as usual. Donald gave the chamber one last look, then followed.

Anthony raised a brow at one of the sealed pods. “Still breathing.”

“They won’t be if we waste time,” Sofia said, already pulling up the next map section. “Nearest threat’s northeast. Heat spikes, clustered. Probably guards and someone important enough to get better heating.”

“Guessing Ivan?” Donald asked.

“Biggest signature in the building. If it’s not him, it’s whoever he’s scared of.”

Nero stopped by a stairwell, tapped the railing once. “Down here. Sofia, pull their cam feed. I want eyes inside.”

“Already hacking,” she muttered, fingers flying. “Door cams are looping. But the thermal’s still spiking. Four guards, one stationary—seated or chained.”

“Chained?” Maria asked, pausing.

“Maybe.” Sofia squinted. “Nope. Standing still. But posture’s off. Might be suit tech. Energy signature’s flaring oddly around the chest.”

“Armor?” Donald asked.

“Or a fake body. Can’t tell without a visual.”

Nero started down the stairs. “Then we knock and ask.”

Diego gave a low whistle. “Going straight for the boss fight? No foreplay?”

“Keep whining,” Nero said. “I’ll let Ivan take you first.”

“Tempting,” Diego said. “But I prefer my torturers with less frostbite and more teeth.”

They reached the lower hallway. Cold was worse here—metal walls sweating, breath fogging quick. Pipes overhead rattled like bones with every footstep.

Anthony pulled his hood lower. “They’ve reinforced this section. Soundproof walls.”

Nero looked at him. “We blow it open. Step back."