A full sized chapter in so long ...
I Believe its time for this story to get reviews with around 100k words of content in.
Also idk why this story has the Highest female reader percentage of all my books roughly 2.4%.
I'm quite curious about how my female characters have been written in the Women opinion.
This chapter will be a treat to science people, do try to decode what caused what sysmptoms..
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Brock Rumlow sat behind the wheel of his car, the dull hum of the engine filling the space as the radio played softly.
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, his voice coming in a low hum as he sang along.
"Guess I got what I deserved..."
The words rolled off his tongue, half-hearted but familiar.
He wasn't much for old music, but this one had stuck with him.
Maybe because it was calm, maybe because it reminded him of something he couldn't quite place.
Or maybe because it was just playing at the right time.
He exhaled slowly, shifting his jaw as his mind drifted back to that meeting.
Alexander Pierce had been ranting for half an hour.
Brock had barely been listening at first, but then a few words caught his attention.
Nick Fury.
The man had made another move.
Another decision that pissed on Hydra's Plans.
"Kept you waiting there too long, my love..."
Pierce was angry.
50% More than usual.
Losing Hank Pym and a bunch of other key scientists was bad enough, but now Project Sentry had been notified as worthless all resources to it all but decommissioned.
Hydra had poured years into that initiative, and now it was deemed redundant.
Pierce was livid.
Brock? He couldn't bring himself to care that much.
He wasn't a scientist.
He didn't care about the research or the breakthroughs.
What mattered to him was the fight.
And the truth was, Nick Fury was one of the few people left he actually wanted to go up against.
People forget Fury was a soldier first.
They see the eye patch, the long coat, the man who stood behind a desk and pulled the strings.
They think he is just a spymaster.
But Fury had taken down Magneto a few years ago.
With a fucking paperclip box.
Not a gun.
Not a superweapon.
Not a squad of enhanced soldiers.
A fucking box of paperclips, rigged with a plastic balloon filled with mixture of Phosgene and Freons.
That left one of the strongest mutants, with multiple organ failure irreperable lung and heart damage and in a catatonic state for months.
Not to mention the things he did in Kosovo.
Brock didn't like the man, but he respected that.
"The special love I have for you, my baby blue..."
His street came into view, and he let out a slow breath as he pulled into the driveway.
His house was too big for one man, but that was just how things had to be.
He shut off the engine and sat there for a moment.
Brock stepped out of his car, the cool night air brushing against his skin as he made his way toward his house. The street was quiet, save for the soft hum of distant crickets and the occasional flickering streetlamp.
As he reached his front yard, he spotted his new neighbor—Ms. Loretta Simmons—sitting outside on her porch.
An old woman, her dark skin marked with the wisdom of age, but her eyes still sharp with warmth.
She was always up late, rocking gently in her chair, as if she had all the time in the world.
"Evenin', dear," she called out, her voice carrying a familiar, comforting weight.
"Evenin', Ms. Simmons," Brock replied with a nod.
Just as he was about to step inside, she suddenly perked up. "Oh, wait, dear! I almost forgot—I made some mint pie earlier."
Brock stopped, already knowing he wouldn't be able to talk his way out of this one.
She slowly pushed herself up from the chair, taking her time as she walked inside.
A minute later, she returned with a plate, half a pie wrapped up neatly for him.
"Well, I think for old bones like mine, too much sugar might not be good," she said with a small chuckle. "So, you can have this."
"You didn't have to, Ms. Simmons."
"Oh, I did."
"Ms Simmon—"
" Shush!, Be a gentleman and eat it, boy."
Her tone was light but carried a mock-threatening edge, making it clear there was no room for argument.
Brock sighed but took the pie, offering a small, reluctant smile. "Yes, ma'am."
He walked inside, setting his things down as he lazily made his way to the kitchen.
He wasn't much of a pie guy, but Ms. Simmons had a habit of feeding him something new every day.
At this point, he'd grown attached to her cooking—even if he'd never admit it.
He tossed together a quick plate of pasta, figuring he might as well have something savory to balance out the sweetness.
With food in hand, he made his way to the couch, turning on the TV.
He lazily flipped through the channels before landing on something new—Breaking Bad.
AMC had been hyping this up, and he figured he'd give it a shot.
As the episode played, he absentmindedly ate his food, not even realizing he had finished the pie until it was gone.
His jaw tightened slightly as an odd garlic-like taste lingered on his tongue.
His brow furrowed as he grimaced—probably a mistake in the kitchen.
Maybe Ms. Simmons had accidentally added something she shouldn't have.
Still, he ate it anyway.
Because, well—he'd never wasted a meal from her before.
And he wasn't about to start now.
After the pilot episode ended, Brock sat back, rubbing his chin. The show was... interesting. It had a solid hook, and if he ever had the time, he figured he'd keep watching.
He stretched his arms before picking up his plate and mug, walking to the sink.
Brock never liked doing the dishes, but he liked a dirty kitchen even less.
Standing at the sink, he rolled his sleeves up, letting the warm water run over his hands as he absently scrubbed the leftover pasta sauce from his plate.
The radio played softly in the background, filling the quiet with a familiar tune—
"Oh, don't worry, be happy now…"
He huffed out something close to a chuckle.
Stupid song.
He remembered hearing it everywhere as a kid.
Annoying as hell back then, but now?
Not bad.
His lips almost twitched into a smirk as he mouthed the words under his breath, rinsing the plate and setting it aside before moving on to the next.
The simple rhythm of washing, rinsing, stacking—it was mindless, almost soothing.
But then—
A faint scratch in his throat.
Not enough to concern him, just enough to make him clear it.
Maybe the pasta sauce had been too salty.
Or maybe that damn mint pie had something in it he wasn't used to.
Either way, he ignored it.
The water was still running warm, the bubbles swirling lazily down the drain as he reached for the last dish.
The radio carried on, lighthearted and easygoing—
"Ain't got no cash, ain't got no style…"
Rumlow exhaled through his nose, wiping his hands off on a towel before turning to grab his coffee mug from the counter.
The movement felt off.
He paused.
Heavy.
His fingers lingered on the ceramic, grip tightening slightly.
His chest felt… tight.
Like a weight had settled on it, just enough to notice.
Another cough.
His brow furrowed.
The sensation crept in slowly, like an itch just beneath the skin.
His limbs felt sluggish, not weak exactly, just—delayed.
He shook his head and turned toward the living room, deciding coffee could wait.
But the moment he took a step, a slow wave of dizziness rolled through him.
Not enough to knock him down, but enough to make him pause.
His heartbeat.
It was—off.
Not racing, not slowing—just… uneven.
A small frown tugged at his lips as he pressed two fingers to his wrist, counting out the rhythm.
Thump-thump… pause… thump-thump-thump.
The headache came next.
A sharp, needling pain at the base of his skull, crawling forward like icy fingers pressing into his temples.
The air felt thicker.
Wrong.
His gaze flickered toward the dim glow of the kitchen light—then he saw it.
Pale green.
A thin mist curled in the air, subtle enough that he might've missed it if not for the way it swirled faintly beneath the overhead light.
His stomach dropped.
Chlorine.
The realization hit fast.
His breath hitched...His throat burned.
Move.
His instincts screamed at him before he even finished the thought.
He turned, nearly stumbling as his body lagged behind his mind.
He had to get upstairs. His mask—where the hell was his mask?
One step.
Two—his legs buckled.
His palm slammed against the railing, barely keeping himself upright as a wet, rattling cough tore through his chest.
The taste of copper filled his mouth.
Blood.
His lungs seized.
His vision blurred at the edges.
He forced himself forward, but every movement felt wrong.
His veins burned, his fingers tingled.
Then—his foot caught the step wrong. His body tilted.
He crashed onto the floor.
His pulse faltered.
His breath came in shallow gasps.
And then—Footsteps.
Slowly, coming straight toward him.
His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, each inhale searing his lungs like fire.
His limbs were sluggish, his vision swimming in waves of green-tinted haze.
The gas was getting thicker.
He could taste the poison in the air, a bitter, metallic sting clinging to his throat.
His body was failing him, muscles twitching uncontrollably as something cold settled deep in his chest.
His heart was slowing—he could feel it.
This shit isn't something I can fight.
His fingers twitched weakly against the floor, his skin turning a mottled shade of blue-black slowly.
Every pulse of his slowing heart sent another ripple of agony through his body.
A dark figure emerged from the green fog.
The shape was familiar—the stance, the way he carried himself.
Then the mask caught the light.
Nick Fury.
Of course.
Rumlow let out a shallow breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
Fury took his time stepping closer, stopping just a few feet away.
Through the visor of the gas mask, his one eye studied him with something that wasn't quite pity, wasn't quite amusement.
"Brock." His voice was steady..
"The amount of toxins inside you right now…" he tilted his head slightly, "Man, even if I got you the world's best doctors this very second, you still wouldn't make it."
Rumlow tried to swallow, but his throat was dry—like sandpaper grinding against itself.
"Tellurium. Chlorine. Phosgene. Fluorine. Lead. Uranium."
Fury listed them off like a grocery list, each name settling over Rumlow like a death sentence.
Rumlow let out a slow, shuddering breath.
"Why…?"
The word barely came out, more breath than voice.
His tongue felt thick, sluggish.
Fury gave a slight shrug, tilting his head.
"I dunno." He paused, then chuckled. "Maybe 'cause you like jerking off to Hitler porn?"
Even with death closing in, even with his vision blurring, Rumlow's expression twisted in confusion.
"Huh?"
Fury crouched slightly, resting an elbow on his knee.
"Come on, man. Say it....
"You know what I wanna hear."
"I'm Itching for you to say it..."
Rumlow's heart was hammering irregularly in his chest.
Skipping beats.
Every second felt stretched out, dragging him deeper into that suffocating haze.
"What… line…?" he rasped.
Fury's lips curled beneath his mask.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
He leaned in just a little closer, voice dropping into a mock whisper.
"Hail motherfucking Hydra, bitch."
Silence stretched between them.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—Rumlow smiled.
A bloody, broken thing.
A last, defiant smirk.
He barely had the strength to speak, his voice a cracked whisper.
"I… was right."
His eyelids grew heavier, his body colder.
His breath hitched.
"You… are a dangerous… motherfucker."
And then—Everything went black for him.
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Fury stared down at Brock Rumlow's lifeless body.
His skin had darkened to a deep blue, veins blackened, lips twisted into what looked like a final smirk.
Even in death, there was defiance in him.
Fury exhaled.
He wasn't always this vindictive.
But Rumlow—he had gotten close.
Too close.
And finding out he was Hydra? That was a wound that cut deep.
His fingers tensed around the gun in his pocket unconsciously.
Like before, it pulsed faintly, a dim blue glow flickering over the metal.
The engraved letters shifted, twisting into something unreadable for a moment before settling.
Fury didn't notice.
His eye stayed on the corpse, thoughts busy on betrayal and the still unfinished business he had.
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