97 Zola

The sun was setting on the East Coast of the United States of America when the Quinjet was speeding through New Jersey. Inside, Harry, Steve, Natasha, Tony, Bruce and Clint were joking around as the autopilot did its thing.

"I wish I was there when you confronted Pierce," Tony complained, throwing his head back dramatically. "The guy was trying to recruit me as an entertainer at his niece’s birthday party, you know."

"Hey, that could be your new gig," Clint called out with a grin. "Birthday clown for hire. You already have the colour scheme on with your Red and Gold. You can market it as Superhero parties, a limited-time offer."

"You do realise I’m a billionaire, right?" Tony mock-glared at him. "And a genius."

"Everyone hits hard times eventually," Clint shot back, completely unfazed. "Got to do what you got to do."

"As if," Tony sniffed, folding his arms with exaggerated snobbery.

Steve chuckled quietly at the exchange, shaking his head.

"And speaking of career changes," Clint added, "how’s it feel, Cap? Public Enemy Number One."

Steve gave a dry, unimpressed look. "Living the dream."

Tony leaned forward, grinning like a shark. "Don't forget to smile for the cameras when they plaster your face on a Most Wanted poster. Maybe sign a few autographs."

"Yeah," Clint snorted, "could be a real collectable. First edition 'America's Sweetheart: Now With 100% More Felony Charges.'"

Bruce piped up from his seat. "I can already hear the news headlines. 'Captain America: From Star-Spangled Hero to Stairwell Menace.'"

Harry shook his head, trying not to laugh. "At this point, Steve, you might as well get a leather jacket, a motorcycle, and just lean all the way into it."

Steve glanced over at him. "I already have a motorcycle and a leather jacket."

Tony clapped his hands together. "Perfect. Now all you need is a bandana and a really tragic backstory about how 'the system failed you.'"

"I think being frozen for seventy years counts," Natasha deadpanned.

Steve sighed long-sufferingly. "I'm glad everyone's having fun with this."

"Oh, we are," Clint said, grinning. "Public Enemy Number One, and you still have the decency to look mildly disappointed in us."

Steve replied with a smirk despite himself. "Well...someone has to."

"Where exactly are we going?" Steve asked, glancing around the cabin as he tried to change the topic of the conversation. "None of you have told me which SHIELD facility this is."

"You'll see it when you get there," Tony replied airily, kicking his boots up onto the console. "It’s a surprise. You like surprises, right, Cap?"

Steve just gave him a flat look.

The Quinjet slowed as it descended. Dust swirled up around them as they touched down in a forgotten clearing surrounded by dense trees. The ramp lowered, and one by one, the crew stepped out into the fading light of the evening.

Before them stood the rusted and overgrown remains of Camp Lehigh.

The old military base stretched out in front of them, abandoned and crumbling. Chain-link fences sagged on broken posts, patches of barbed wire snarled like nests of dead snakes. The sign that once proudly bore the camp’s name was now a faded skeleton, the paint chipped and peeled by decades of rain, sun, and neglect.

Rows of squat, grey barracks dotted the grounds like ghosts from another era. Many of the buildings had weeds and vines crawling up their sides like nature was trying to swallow them whole. While a few rusting military vehicles sat forgotten in the corners.

Steve’s breath caught slightly in his chest.

It wasn’t just any base. It was his.

“So the file came from this location?” Natasha asked, inspecting the broken gates, her hand brushing over the rusted metal.

Steve’s voice was quieter as he added. “So did I.”

The team turned to look at him

Tony, gave Steve a quick pat on the shoulder. "Welcome home, Cap," he said with a smile, as he dragged a briefcase from the plane.

They moved carefully through the empty compound as they looked for any signs of human life or recent human activity in the area. The last rays of sunlight stretched long and low, casting eerie shadows across the abandoned base as night began to fall.

Steve led the way as he reminisced about his time here. "This used to be our barracks," he said, gesturing to a long, sagging building with peeling paint and boarded windows. "That over there—" he pointed to a crumbling obstacle course half-swallowed by wild vines, "—was the training yard."

The others fanned out a little, staying within earshot. Bruce and Tony had their heads buried in scanners and tablets, sweeping the area for electronic signatures. Meanwhile, Harry, Clint, and Natasha scanned for anything out of place, such as footprints or hidden cameras, looking for signs of recent use.

Tony glanced up from his tablet long enough to smirk. "I saw your photos before the serum, you know," he said, trying and failing to keep the teasing out of his voice. "Tell me, Cap, did you get shoved into a lot of lockers here, or were the guys more creative?"

Steve gave him a sidelong look but didn't rise to the bait. "Yeah," he said simply. "I did."

There was a beat of silence. Then Clint broke it by nudging Tony with his elbow. "Careful, Stark. You might end up inspiring another museum exhibit: The History of Tony Getting His Teeth Punched Out."

"Please," Tony scoffed, tapping on his tablet. "If Steve punched me every time I made a joke, we'd have to rename this team 'The Revengers.'"

That earned a few snickers from the group as they continued their sweep under the deepening twilight.

“So why did they pick you, Cap?” Bruce asked curiously as he adjusted his scanners.

Steve slowed a little, the memory drawing a small, almost bittersweet smile to his face.
"The colonel in charge of training tossed a grenade into our group one morning." Steve glanced around at the others, who were now giving him their full attention. "Everyone scattered. I jumped on it. Tried to cover it with my body."

Tony blinked. "Seriously? Not even thinking it might be a fake?"

"Didn't have time to think," Steve shrugged. "Just reacted."

"The night before the procedure, Dr. Erskine told me something. He said, ‘The serum amplifies everything that is inside. So good becomes great. Bad becomes worse.’" Steve paused, letting the words settle in. "He picked me because... a strong man who’s known power his whole life may lose respect for it. But a weak man understands the value of strength and knows compassion."

They moved deeper into the compound where weeds grew in the cracks of the pavement, and the buildings stood like ghosts of a bygone era, windows shattered and walls faded from decades of sun and rain.

"Anything change much?" Natasha asked, peering into one of the abandoned barracks through a broken window.

"A little," Steve replied, scanning the familiar layout with a critical eye. He pointed toward a line of squat buildings across the way. "Those storage sheds weren’t here back in the '40s."

Tony, meanwhile, was pacing the grounds with his scanner. "This is a dead end," Tony declared dramatically. "Zero heat signatures, zero electromagnetic waves, not even radio waves. Whoever wrote that file must’ve just bounced it through here. Some clever router trick to make it look legit."

Bruce checked his own handheld device and frowned. "He's right. There's no sign anyone’s been here for years, maybe decades."

"Great," Clint muttered. "We flew all the way to Jersey for nostalgia and tumbleweeds."

While the others debated the dead end, Harry and Steve had fallen unusually quiet, as both of them stared intently at a squat building tucked into the far corner of the compound. It was plain and unremarkable at first glance. To most eyes, it blended in with the decay of Camp Lehigh. But to trained soldiers, it stuck out like a sore thumb.

"What did you two notice?" Bruce asked, picking up on the sudden shift in mood.

"That building’s not where it’s supposed to be," Harry said, already striding toward it with Steve right beside him.

Tony jogged after them, raising a brow. "How is an armory out of place in a barrack? Sounds pretty standard to me."

"Standard until you actually read the rulebook," Steve replied without missing a step. "Army regulations strictly forbid storing live ammunition within five hundred yards of sleeping quarters. It's a safety hazard. Armouries are usually built on the edges of a base, far from barracks."

Reaching the heavy door, Steve gave it a once-over, then nodded to Harry. Harry cast an Alohomora, causing the old lock to snap open. Steve then proceeded to pull the door open, which revealed a darkness beyond.

"I'm gonna take the high ground," Clint volunteered as he inspected the area for a place where he could see the whole grounds. "We don't want any surprises while you lot are poking around in there."

Steve gave him a quick nod of approval. "Good call."

Without another word, Clint peeled off from the group, slipping into the shadows and scaling a nearby dilapidated watchtower. The rest of them exchanged a quick look before heading deeper into the mysterious armoury.

When Bruce flipped the main breaker, the overhead fluorescent lights buzzed reluctantly to life, flickering before settling into a dim glow. The room they found themselves in looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Thick layers of dust coated the floor, desks, and old filing cabinets. On the cracked walls, the faint outline of where banners or posters once hung could still be seen. At the far end of the wall, there was a large, old logo of SHIELD painted on it.

“This is SHIELD,” Natasha said, as she scanned the ghostly environment.

“Maybe where it started,” Steve replied.

The group spread out through the office space to look for clues. Tony, meanwhile, dropped his portable scanner onto a metal desk as he began setting up a full sweep of the building’s systems and structure.

Most of the desks were empty, save for a few yellowed papers and rusted typewriters. Old SHIELD logos were faded into the fabric of the walls and carpets. Filing cabinets stood half-open, their contents long since removed or destroyed.

In a smaller side room, tucked behind a heavy door that creaked loudly when opened, they found what looked like a makeshift Hall of Honour. Dusty framed photographs lined the walls that included Howard Stark with his ever-present confident grin, Peggy Carter standing proud in her military uniform, and a stern-looking Col. Chester Phillips as he stared unamused into the camera.

Steve paused in front of the photo of Peggy, his fingers lightly brushing the frame, leaving a clean streak across the dusty glass.

“Guys, you’re going to want to see this!” Tony called out, practically bouncing on his heels as he waved them over. The group hurried over, finding him standing in front of an old, dust-caked bookshelf.

“Ohh, a secret entrance. Nice," Tony grinned like a kid finding a hidden treasure chest. Without waiting for backup, he grabbed the edge of the shelf and, with a dramatic shove, slid it aside with a loud scrape of wood on concrete.

“Why would you want a secret elevator in a secret base?” Steve asked skeptically.

Behind it was an old-fashioned metal elevator. Tony practically pranced over to the keypad beside the elevator. "This bad boy doesn't connect to any other floors, straight shot down, no stops. And whatever’s interesting might be down there."

"You look way too excited about that," Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

"Come on, Harry, secret elevator hidden behind a bookshelf? This is, like, classic spy stuff. Ten-year-old me is screaming right now," Tony said, grinning wildly as he worked.

"Pretty sure fifty-year-old you is screaming too," Natasha quipped under her breath.

Tony ignored them, already pulling out a small device from his belt and jacking it into the ancient security panel. "Give me one second to work my magic," he said, almost singing the words.

The group exchanged a few amused looks, but they all instinctively checked their weapons or gear, getting ready. If Tony Stark was this giddy about what lay beneath, it probably wasn’t going to be boring.

The elevator dinged as its ancient doors slid open with a groan of protest. Weapons ready, the team stepped inside. The descent was long, and the air grew cooler the deeper they went. When the elevator finally jolted to a stop, the doors creaked open, and they were greeted by nothing but pitch blackness.

Without missing a beat, Harry cast a "Lumos."

A bright white light flared to life, cutting through the darkness and illuminating the room beyond. What they saw made everyone pause.

The entire chamber was filled wall-to-wall with rows of large cassette tapes and a first-generation computer. Hulking, boxy machines that looked like museum pieces. Dozens of tape reels spun lazily back and forth. Massive banks of blinking lights dotted the walls, some still flickering weakly after all these years. The outdated machinery buzzed in the background, almost like the heartbeat of something old refusing to die. Cables as thick as a man’s arm coiled along the ceiling and trailed down the walls like creeping vines.

“This can’t be the data point," Bruce said as he looked around at the outdated tech. "This technology’s ancient, practically prehistoric."

"Yeah, but you know what they say," Tony replied, already sliding into the cracked leather chair at the main console. "Old dogs, older tricks."

Bruce joined him without hesitation. Both of them started fiddling with the dusty controls, flipping switches and muttering to themselves. Steve, Harry, and Natasha spread out, inspecting the tall stacks of cassettes and reels stored in battered cabinets along the walls.

At the console, Bruce grunted in frustration. "Nothing’s powering up."

Tony banged the side of the terminal. "Come on, you relic, work for Daddy."

After a few moments, the lights on the console flickered to life and the ancient monitor crackled and displayed a blinking green prompt:

INITIATE SYSTEM?

Tony, grinning like a kid who just found the cookie jar, cracked his knuckles and typed back: YES.

As the computer groaned to life, lines of green code began crawling across the monitor. Slowly, the lines coalesced, arranging themselves into a crude, pixelated face. Above them, an old mechanical camera mounted to the ceiling whirred to life, its rusted gears grinding as it tilted to scan the room.

A crackling, synthetic voice filled the space: "Rogers, Steven. Born 1918. Romanoff, Natasha Alianovna. Born 1984. Stark, Anthony Edward. Born 1970. Potter, Harry James. Born 1980. Banner, Robert Bruce. Born 1969."

Tony took a cautious step back, squinting up at the camera. "Okay, that’s not horrifying at all," he muttered.

"It's some kind of recording," Natasha said cautiously, narrowing her eyes at the flickering screen.

"I am not a recording, Fräulein," the computerised voice retorted, the static in its tone giving it an unsettling edge. "I may not be the man I was when the Captain took me prisoner in 1945... but I am Dr. Arnim Zola."

A side computer screen blinked, shifting from the pixelated face to display a faded black-and-white photograph of a younger, sour-faced Arnim Zola, wearing a lab coat.

Harry glanced at the pixelated face on the screen with a frown. "Do you know this thing?" he asked Steve.

Steve’s surveyed the location as he answered. "Arnim Zola was a German scientist... who worked with the Red Skull during the war. He’s been dead for decades."

A distorted voice, crackling with digital static, filled the room. "First correction — I am Swiss," the computerised voice snapped. "Second, look around you. I have never been more alive."

The grainy image on the screen shimmered and shifted until it formed a pixelated likeness of Arnim Zola’s face, his eyes cold even in digital form. "In 1972, I received a terminal diagnosis," Zola explained, almost proudly."Science could not save my body. But my mind... that was worth preserving. Two hundred thousand feet of data banks. You are standing inside my brain."

"You two have enough space to download his brain for study?" Natasha asked, glancing at Tony and Bruce.

The two 'tech bros' exchanged mischievous grins. Bruce did some quick mental math, his brows knitting together thoughtfully. "With the tech they had here, I'd guess the size of his files would be a few thousand gigabytes. Honestly, I doubt this is Zola's entire brain. It's probably a primitive AI program mimicking his personality."

"My portable drive has a couple of thousand terabytes free," Tony said smugly, pulling an external device from his kit. "I could make a dozen copies of whatever Frankenstein-lite here is running." He plugged into a retrofitted modern port, already typing commands into his laptop.

"Just make sure he stays isolated," Natasha warned sharply. "The last thing we need is Zola infecting avenger data files."

"Yes, ma'am," Tony quipped without looking up as his fingers danced over the keys.

On the screen, Zola’s pixelated face twisted into what might have been a smirk. "You will not be able to copy me," he boasted with mechanical pride.

Tony grinned. "Challenge accepted."

Steve and Harry kept up the questioning while Tony and Bruce focused on the download.

"How did you get here?" Steve demanded.

"Invited," the digital Zola replied smugly as his pixelated face warped into something like a grin.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, piecing it together. She remembered the classified files she'd skimmed back at SHIELD. "It was Operation Paperclip," she said grimly. "After World War II, SHIELD recruited German scientists who had strategic value."

"They believed I could help their cause," Zola said, almost fondly. "And I, of course, used it to help mine."

Steve’s jaw tightened, anger flashing in his eyes. "HYDRA died with the Red Skull."

Zola’s mechanical chuckle buzzed through the speakers. "Cut off one head," he intoned, his voice dripping with mockery, "two more shall take its place. The Red Skull was a radical who lost his way after taking the incomplete super-soldier serum. No, I built this new Hydra based on my ideologies. The organisation that it was meant to be."

 "Prove it," Steve challenged.

"Accessing archive," Zola replied. The screen flickered and buzzed before stabilising on grainy, black-and-white footage. It showed Johann Schmidt standing before ranks of HYDRA soldiers, barking orders with fanatical fervour.

"HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom," Zola narrated. "What we did not realise was that if you attempt to take freedom by force, they resist. The war taught us much."

The footage shifted again, this time showing familiar faces: politicians shaking hands, soldiers returning home, the official formation of SHIELD.

"After the war, SHIELD was created. And I was recruited. Under their noses, the new HYDRA took root, a beautiful parasite, growing inside SHIELD itself."

The images turned darker with assassinations, coups, and wars breaking out in developing nations.

"For seventy years, HYDRA has been secretly feeding crises, engineering war. And when history did not cooperate..." Zola’s voice dripped with twisted pride, "...history was changed."

“That’s impossible,” Natasha said, shaking her head. “SHIELD would have stopped you.”

Zola’s mechanical voice crackled, almost amused. “Accidents will happen.”

The screen flickered again, this time displaying a grainy newsreel from the past — the wreckage of a car crash, the crumpled remains of Howard and Maria Stark’s vehicle, twisted in the aftermath. The footage shifted to a sombre funeral, with the flag-draped casket of Nick Fury.

The air in the room felt like it thickened as Tony’s voice broke the silence, low and filled with barely contained fury. “You killed my parents.”

Zola’s response was chillingly cold. “We did what was necessary.”

Tony’s hands clenched into fists, his jaw tight. He took a step forward, every part of him screaming for vengeance.

“There will be time for revenge later,” Harry said softly. “For now, we finish this.”

Tony didn’t speak again, but his hands remained clenched at his sides, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He refocused on the task at hand, knowing full well that the moment they left this place, the path to vengeance would be clear.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, his patience thinning as the digital Zola’s smug voice echoed through the room. “What is your purpose?” he demanded.

“HYDRA created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrifice its freedom to gain its security. Once the purification process is complete, HYDRA’s new world order will arise. We won, Captain. Your death amounts to the same as your life; a zero sum.” Replied Zola smugly.

The words hung in the air like poison, each syllable calculated to provoke. Steve’s hand instinctively gripped his shield tightly, his knuckles white. The cold, calculated certainty in Zola’s voice was maddening, the sheer audacity of his claims enough to turn anyone’s stomach. The memories of the countless battles he fought, the sacrifices of his comrades, the very essence of everything he stood for, it all came rushing back in a flood. To hear Zola speak with such arrogant finality tipped Steve towards the edge.

A raw surge of anger coursed through him, a fury that seemed to break through the years of restraint. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the adrenaline sharpening every sense, heightening his resolve.

With a guttural cry that echoed off the walls, Steve swung his shield with all his might, bringing it crashing down on the ancient monitor. The glass shattered, splintering into a thousand pieces, the sound of destruction ringing in their ears like a much-needed release.

“We got a bogey,” Bruce warned, as his computer emitted a shrill alarm. His eyes widened in concern as he analyzed the data. “Short-range ballistic. Thirty seconds tops.”

“Who fired it?” Steve demanded.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Bruce replied, his tone laced with disbelief, his eyes darting between the screen and his teammates.

From the speakers, Zola’s disembodied voice floated in amusedly. “I am afraid I have been stalling,” Zola chuckled, a sinister edge to his words. “Admit it, it’s better this way. We’re both out of time.” His voice echoed, distorted with the digital static, as though mocking their desperate race against the clock.

Even before Zola could finish his taunt, Harry was already in motion. With a sharp crack, he apparated out of the underground facility, materialising in the open field above the barracks. Without wasting a heartbeat, Harry waved his hand skyward, shouting, “Protego Maxima!” A brilliant, translucent dome erupted shimmering into existence around the compound.

From the horizon, a sharp whistle split the sky. Then, the first missile slammed into the magical barrier with a thunderous roar, sending shockwaves rippling across the field. The shield held firm as the explosion splattered harmlessly against the glowing dome like rain against glass.

Another missile followed, then another like a relentless barrage. They rained down like meteors, each one smashing into the shield with deafening booms, each time fizzling out harmlessly against Harry’s magic. Smoke and dust churned around him, but he didn’t waver.

"That was a close call!" Clint called out from his lookout perch, squinting down at the smoking battlefield beyond the shimmering magical shield.

Harry rolled his eyes as he let the Protego shield flicker and dissipate now that the immediate threat was neutralised. The field around the compound was littered with the shattered remains of warheads.

"I had it under control," Harry called back dryly, dusting off his jacket as if the whole missile barrage had been a mild inconvenience. Without wasting another second, Harry sprinted toward the Quinjet and grabbed Tony’s portable Iron Man suit briefcase.

With a sharp crack, he vanished again, apparating straight back into the underground Zola room where the others were starting to wrap up.

"Yeah, well, you forgot to account for our wizard’s ability," Tony bragged, flashing a cocky grin as he finished the download of Zola’s program files on his laptop.

"You got what you needed?" Harry asked.

Tony gave a firm nod. Harry handed over the Iron Man briefcase with a knowing smirk. "The honor is all yours."

Tony’s grin widened with childlike glee. He snapped open the case and retrieved a compact but highly potent bomb from a hidden compartment within his suit’s arsenal.

Harry could have easily incinerated the whole room with a wave of his wand, but he stood back, giving Tony the satisfaction. After everything Zola had said, after everything HYDRA had done, it felt right for Tony to be the one to pull the trigger.

Tony strutted up to the main console, spun the bomb theatrically in his hand, and placed it with a satisfying clink atop the dusty metal. With a few taps on his smartphone, he set the timer for ten minutes, giving them plenty of time to escape.

"Goodnight, Zola," Tony muttered under his breath, giving the console a mock salute.

"Time to move," Steve ordered, already ushering the group toward the elevator.

The whole crew raced out into the abandoned field and quickly piled into the Quinjet. From inside, they watched the ticking clock on Tony’s phone hit zero.

A low rumble vibrated through the ground beneath them, but that was it. No fireball, no debris flying into the sky, no glorious, cathartic explosion. Just... a dull, distant tremor.

"That’s it?" Clint asked, squinting down at the field.

"That was anticlimactic," Natasha muttered, crossing her arms.

Harry let out a long, frustrated sigh. "All that buildup and no fireworks? Seriously? I thought you liked making things blow up."

In a rare sight, it was Steve who cracked a rare grin and encouraged Tony. "You going to pout about it or do something?"

Tony’s eyes gleamed with sudden inspiration. Without a word, he stomped toward the quinjet's small arsenal locker. One by one, he yanked out several of the heavier bombs they kept for emergencies.

"Uh, Tony..." Bruce started cautiously.

But Tony was already marching to the back ramp. "Nope. Not ending it like that."

He casually dropped the bombs out of the rear hatch, right onto the remnants of the hidden armoury.

Everyone scrambled to strap themselves in as Tony launched the Quinjet back into the air. Steve, standing by the hatch, didn’t even blink as he calmly fired a few well-placed shots from the quinjet’s mounted guns into the payload below.

The explosion was immediate and spectacular. The ground rippled. Fire and debris erupted in a satisfying column of flame and smoke, lighting up the otherwise drab field.

"There’s the fireworks," Clint crowed as the shockwave rocked the Quinjet gently.

"Feel better now?" Harry asked dryly as he tightened his harness.

Tony grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. "Much."

With the ruins of the old SHIELD base smouldering behind them, the quinjet banked hard toward the skyline, racing back toward Avengers Tower for the next phase of the war.