It was late March 2013; gray clouds loomed over Washington D.C., the Potomac River's waters rippling uneasily—one Insight Helicarrier hovered in the Triskelion's shadow, primed for Hydra's final move. Alexander Pierce's office, on the carrier's command deck, was a fortress of wide glass—Pierce, UN Security Council Secretary, deceived the world, but was truly a top Hydra leader; cold, cunning, ruthless. He sat at his polished wooden desk, gray suit pristine, white hair neat, yet his blue eyes stormed—clutching a rushed Hydra report that pushed him to rage's edge. News had just hit: Diabolic had brutally beaten the Winter Soldier on the highway, forcing Bucky Barnes to flee. "Who the hell is Diabolic?" Pierce roared, voice echoing off metal walls—he hurled the report, papers scattering, a glass tumbling, shattering, water pooling on the carpet. Agents before him trembled, silent; a young STRIKE member mustered courage, "Sir… his identity's confirmed," he stammered, "Name's Ali Bozkurt."
Pierce's scowl snapped to the agent, "Ali Bozkurt? Who's that?" he sneered, voice mocking yet menacing—the agent, shaking, lifted the report. "Ali Bozkurt: Central Park vendor—New York's most famous, loved for his food; Turkish döner, köfte, Ottoman sherbet, simit, lahmacun," he read. Pierce's eyes bulged, "A vendor? You screwing with me? A street cook?" he bellowed, slamming his fist so hard a metal pen holder jumped—the agent gulped, pressing on, "Stark Expo 2010, saved dozens during HAMMER drone chaos, shot in the chest, yet survived inexplicably—hospital records show nothing odd, but his recovery was impossibly fast." Pierce's face darkened, lips thinning, "Go on," he growled, teeth clenched—Pierce loathed losing control, and this mystery drove him mad.
The agent, voice quaking, continued, "Black Widow's—Natasha Romanoff's—boyfriend; likely attacking us for her. Close with Tony Stark—met often since Expo, Stark gifted him a custom van. Runs with Steve Rogers in Central Park, tight friends; connected to other Avengers—Thor, Hawkeye, Hulk." Pierce's brows shot up, "What?" he gasped—the agent, sweating, read on, "Calmed Hulk, the green beast, with his 'Ottoman Sherbet'—S.H.I.E.L.D. sponsored him, considered mass-producing it. And… Battle of New York, he took down Loki with a kick to the groin, turned the tide—public loves him, calls him 'Loki Kicker' online." Pierce leaped from his chair, strode to the window, hands clasped behind—jaw muscles twitched, breathing fast. "You're just now learning this?" he hissed, voice cold but shaking with fury, "Your agents' stupidity, incompetence, idiocy, and intel failures let this masked black devil haunt Hydra!" Silence weighed heavy; agents bowed heads, none dared meet his gaze.
Pierce stared out at the Helicarrier's hangar, its massive guns glinting, "This street cook, this… Ali Bozkurt, Diabolic—if he beat the Winter Soldier, he's an uncontrollable threat!" he shouted, glaring at his agents, "Issue a kill order—hunt him, find him, eliminate him! Insight launches today—if we don't stop him, it's over!" Yet dread gnawed him—Pierce craved control, but Diabolic's shadow unraveled his plans; my unmasking on the highway exposed me, and this report mocked his ignorance of Ali Bozkurt. "How's it a vendor…" he muttered, staring at his reflection—Hydra's frustration swirled like a storm in Pierce's rage; as agents scrambled out, he stood alone, Diabolic's shadow looming larger in his mind.
Meanwhile, at Sam Wilson's house, we prepped to strike Hydra's heart— infiltrate the Insight Helicarrier, capture Pierce, save Bucky Barnes. Nick Fury was with us—he'd survived the Winter Soldier's attack, hiding; now better, in his black leather coat, scars visible, one eye fixed on us. "No one knows that carrier like me," he said, voice hard, resolute, tossing a file—Insight's original plans, "It was my project—missed Hydra 'til now. Got a score to settle." Steve spread a map on Sam's kitchen table—three Insight Helicarriers' schematics, each armed with Zola's algorithm to target millions. "Plan's simple," Steve said, blue eyes locked on the map, "Natasha, Ali, Fury take Pierce—Sam and I find Bucky. I'll break his brainwashing—he's still in there, I know it." Sam set his EXO-7 Falcon wings on the table—'borrowed' from Fort Meade last night, gleaming; "Air support's mine," he grinned, tapping the metal. Natasha, with Espionage & Assassination Mastery (Epic), studied the map, "Grab Pierce, we stop Insight," she said coolly, "But time's tight—launch is hours away."
Before the mission, I stole a moment with Natasha in Sam's backyard—spring breeze whispered, tree branches rustled; the Potomac shimmered gray in the distance. I turned, took her hand, heart pounding—Mortal Divine Body (Epic) couldn't tame it. "Natasha," I said, voice shaky but firm, "If we survive this… marry me, my red-haired angel!" Natasha froze—green eyes locked on mine, stunned; lips parted, silent. Then her eyes welled, a tear slid down—Red Room's cruel surgery, a hysterectomy, left her sterile, unable to bear children. Marriage meant she couldn't give me a family—a dagger to her heart. She couldn't answer; a forced smile hid her pain, not wanting to hurt me, but her soul ached—joy soured by her past. "Ali…" she said, voice fragile, "Can we talk later?"—evasive, but her eyes betrayed grief; hands trembled, gaze dropped. I pulled her close, stroked her hair, breathed her scent—salty air, faint floral, Natasha's essence. "I love you, every part of you," I said, kissing her forehead—her sorrow pierced me, but duty called; I couldn't dwell.
As we geared up, a Ding! flashed the system screen:
"Main Event Quest: Fight Hydra on Their Helicarrier and Don't Die! - Reward: ???"
"Thanks, System, real comforting," I thought, sarcastic—time was slipping, and we'd give everything. With Fury's lead, Sam's wings, Steve's shield, Natasha's wits, and my Close Combat Mastery (Epic), we infiltrated the Helicarrier—to seize Pierce, save Bucky, end Hydra forever. I glanced at Natasha, squeezed her hand, "I'd do anything for you," I thought—in the Triskelion's shadow, advancing to the hangar, my heart beat with love and resolve. Time was running out, but with Natasha by my side, I was ready—even for death.