The S.H.I.E.L.D. strike force was pinned down under a relentless storm of enemy fire. Were it not for Thor and the Hulk holding the line, they would have already been reduced to ashes. As things stood, merely surviving in their current position felt like a small miracle — advancing any farther was out of the question.
Thor swung Mjolnir in a wide arc, unleashing a surge of blinding lightning that obliterated a swath of Hydra soldiers. Their bodies convulsed violently as they fell, smoke rising from charred armor. But no sooner had they dropped than fresh troops surged forward to take their place, keeping up the merciless barrage of plasma and artillery.
A pulse blast from an electromagnetic cannon slammed into the Hulk's chest, the explosion shaking the ground and forcing the green behemoth to stumble back a step. Though unscathed, his grimace betrayed that the attack wasn't painless. More Hydra tanks were rolling into position, their cannons charging, ready to buy their army another few minutes.
But even a few minutes could prove disastrous.
Captain America's gaze lifted toward the distant mountains — the Hydra long-range artillery positions. Marcus's earlier deception had forced Hydra to hesitate before firing, but if they lingered here much longer, even that advantage wouldn't save them. Once those cannons started raining death again, there would be nothing left but craters and corpses.
"Miracles aren't that easy, Marcus," Steve muttered under his breath, gripping his shield. He wanted to believe in the young operative, but no miracle could overturn such overwhelming odds. Not when the enemy's sheer numbers and superior weaponry left them utterly outmatched.
The only possible counterbalance would be unleashing the Hulk's full power — abandoning reason, giving in to pure rage, and becoming an unstoppable force of destruction. But if that happened, Hydra wouldn't be the only casualty. There'd be no stopping him. Not even the Avengers could.
Steve suspected Nick Fury was already considering pulling Hulk off the field before Hydra did something reckless enough to unleash the apocalypse.
Meanwhile, on Hydra's side, the shift in momentum had bolstered morale. The black-haired specter who'd been haunting them had seemingly vanished. Perhaps — they whispered — he'd been caught in the earlier friendly-fire bombardment. It was the only explanation they dared hope for.
If so, the men who'd perished under their own artillery had died as heroes — a small price to pay for ridding them of the demon.
At the front, a Hydra field commander barked orders to maintain fire and hold the line when a communications officer ran up, out of breath, clutching a receiver.
"Sir! Urgent message from forward command!"
The officer pressed the communicator into his superior's hand. The commander lifted it to his ear — and froze as he heard the order.
"What?! Retreat from the position? Sir, we're on the verge of annihilating S.H.I.E.L.D.! Why would we—"
"Repeat: withdraw from B-Sector, Hill 11. Regroup at D-Sector, Grid 6. You have ten minutes to execute. Move immediately."
The voice on the other end was firm, leaving no room for argument. And in Hydra's ranks, orders were absolute. Gritting his teeth, the commander glared toward the embattled S.H.I.E.L.D. troops, silently cursing his superior's incompetence.
"Damn fool," he muttered bitterly before shouting, "All units! Fall back! Ten minutes to reach D-Sector, Grid 6 — move!"
The roar of Hydra's guns began to fade. The tank battalions that had been hammering the Hulk abruptly ceased fire and started to withdraw.
Captain America's eyes narrowed. The shift was unmistakable.
"Something's wrong," he murmured — but he didn't hesitate.
"Everyone, forward! Don't waste the opportunity!"
Leading the charge himself, Steve sprinted ahead as the enemy lines broke. The S.H.I.E.L.D. troops surged after him, storming the abandoned position.
Moments later, the very trench they had just vacated exploded under the thunder of Hydra's long-range artillery. Shells rained down like fiery meteors, consuming everything in a storm of flame and ash. When the bombardment finally ceased, nothing remained of their old position but scorched earth.
If they had been even seconds slower, they would have been obliterated.
But why had Hydra retreated so suddenly? Why order such a withdrawal when victory was within reach?
And then things got even stranger. Through binoculars, Steve watched multiple Hydra squads marching in random directions, colliding into one another, creating chaos across the battlefield. Entire platoons were tripping over their own ranks, moving with no coordination at all.
"Are they serious?" a soldier muttered in disbelief. "Who's giving these orders — a lunatic?"
Steve frowned. No competent commander would make such absurd tactical decisions. Unless…
His eyes widened.
"Marcus."
He switched on the comms. "Marcus, are you… disrupting their command network?"
The reply came with calm amusement.
"No," Marcus said. "I'm controlling it."
He leaned back casually in the Hydra command center, one boot propped on the strategy table, surrounded by unconscious officers and technicians. The monitors flickered with static, the feeds already hijacked. Before taking over, he'd used Stark's hacking protocols to disable every surveillance camera in the area, ensuring no one outside knew the bunker had fallen.
Now, with Hydra's communications grid at his fingertips, he spoke into the command microphone — his voice perfectly mimicking the tone of the original officer. One by one, he issued conflicting orders: retreats, redeployments, and bombardment requests that hit nothing but their own lines.
Within minutes, Hydra's entire central command had dissolved into pandemonium.
As the saying goes — you don't fear a godlike enemy; you fear an idiot ally.
And now, thanks to Marcus, Hydra's vast army had become an army of idiots.
No matter their numbers, no matter their technology, even the mightiest force couldn't win under the weight of its own stupidity.
"Who's running the command post?!" Baron Strucker roared, his face cycling from pale to crimson to nearly black with rage. His fist came crashing down on the table, splintering it in two.
A panicked aide stammered, "We've sent nearby patrols to check the bunker, sir, but… we haven't heard anything back. I–I think… it's him. The black-Reaper."
"Damn that black-Reaper!!" Strucker's voice echoed through the fortress halls, raw fury shaking the very walls.
His wrath could do nothing to change the truth.
Hydra's lines were collapsing — not from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s might, but from within.
And in the center of that chaos, the Reaper himself sat calmly, smiling behind his mask.
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T/N:
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