Busy Sitwell, wrapped in a thick coat, hurried into the icebound plane as if he'd just struck gold.
The moment they saw Old Popsicle, every HYDRA agent broke into amused grins.
The Captain of the expedition, bank card still in hand, was about to leave—only to be politely "escorted" back outside.
A considerate HYDRA agent thoughtfully reunited the expedition leader with his teammates.
"Their devotion is enviable. As long as the North Pole doesn't melt, they'll stay together forever."
"Indeed. Enviable—spending an entire lifetime with your best friends."
Sitwell bowed toward the snow pit, thanking the expedition team for their "contribution."
"Give them a proper burial."
"Yes, sir."
At his order, agents shoveled snow over the bodies, entombing them, then erected a three-meter monument engraved with Captain America's shield.
When Old Popsicle arrived at HYDRA's secret base, Jack rushed over.
After examining the body, Jack asked Sitwell,
"When do you think he'll wake up?"
Sitwell blinked. "Commander… he's dead. He won't wake up."
Jack wagged a finger. "No, no, no. He's alive. Keep him at room temperature and he'll open his eyes."
After a long pause, Sitwell cautiously asked,
"Should we… finish him off?"
Jack's grin turned wicked.
"No. We save him—and then leak the news to S.H.I.E.L.D."
"Once Nick Fury hears about this, he'll move heaven and earth to get him."
Sitwell followed up instinctively.
"Then we wipe out their people and finally erase S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"No," Jack vetoed immediately.
"We kill most of them. Let a few escape—and let them take the Captain."
Sitwell frowned.
"Why not wipe them out completely?"
Jack spoke calmly, like a seasoned butcher deciding where to cut.
"Comfort breeds rot. Pressure breeds vigilance. Let them survive in the shadows—constantly afraid."
"Details decide victory."
Sitwell didn't fully understand, but nodded anyway.
"Commander, you're… extremely thorough."
Noticing Jack's murderous glare, he quickly corrected himself.
"Commander, your caution will unite the world under us."
Jack withdrew his gaze, satisfied, and looked at Old Popsicle lying there.
"After thawing him, implant micro-trackers all over his body—enough to make him gain about a pound."
Sitwell mentally calculated.
"Commander, each tracker weighs about three grams. That means… one hundred sixty-six trackers."
"Isn't that a bit excessive?"
"Add them," Jack said flatly.
"Only 166."
"But don't affect his mobility. Arrange them on his back—in the shape of HYDRA's emblem."
Sitwell smiled faintly, gazing at Old Popsicle like a proud father looking at his son before carving his fate.
A few days later, during the transportation of Captain America, a reckless truck slammed into the convoy.
The cryogenic container was thrown out onto the road.
Pedestrians scattered—until they realized there was no explosion.
Then people cautiously approached.
"My God… is that Captain America?"
"I swear it's him—frozen all these years!"
"Those government bastards must've experimented on him. Even his corpse can't rest."
"No wonder this country's fucked—his ghost is cursing America."
"They get rich in villas while we sniff trash on the streets."
"I'll expose this! My followers are gonna explode!"
Within minutes, dozens of phones were recording.
If the capsule could've opened, some girls would've dragged him out immediately just for views.
Even without that, photos and videos spread like wildfire.
Less than an hour later, S.H.I.E.L.D. arrived and erased everything clean.
Witnesses, however, were intentionally left behind.
Inside an unknown villa, Nick Fury was browsing a certain "mature" website when the door burst open.
He slammed the laptop shut.
"Director, you need to see this."
Phil Coulson, flustered, handed him the saved videos and photos.
"Coulson," Fury said calmly,
"I've told you—our agents must remain composed. What's with the panic?"
Fury skimmed the files.
"Sorry, sir, I overstepped—next time I'll—"
"Motherf—!" Fury exploded.
"Why the hell am I only seeing this now? Move! NOW!"
Coulson muttered behind him,
"Damn motherf— black—"
Fury suddenly turned back, wiped the browser history, then hesitated.
He formatted the drive.
Still uneasy, he removed the hard disk entirely, pocketed it, then dismantled it piece by piece.
Just in case.
HYDRA agents continued monitoring the witness's apartment.
Day after day, nonstop moaning, oh-oh-ah-ahs, three-hundred-pound "fairies" roaring, mixed with occasional pearls of wisdom.
"So what?"
"They're different."
"Where's your compassion?"
"Ahhh—!"
Agents rotated shifts every few days just to survive that cursed channel.
Finally, the voices they'd been waiting for appeared.
"Hello, ma'am."
"Who are you calling ma'am?"
Coulson stared at the figure.
"You're… male?"
"Why assume I'm male?"
Nick Fury's face darkened.
"A ladyboy, then?"
"You—you—you—!"
"On what basis do you assign my gender?"
"Bleep—!"
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