SOMEWHERE IN THE BALKANS - OCTOBER 25, 1943
Captain Steven Trevor hunched lower in the underbrush, his body perfectly still despite the cold rain that had been falling steadily for the past three hours. Through his field binoculars, he observed the heavily fortified compound nestled in the mountain valley below—a facility that officially didn't exist according to both Allied and Axis intelligence reports.
The compound bore no swastika banners or official German insignia. Instead, the familiar skull-and-tentacles of HYDRA adorned its gates and guard towers, Schmidt's personal army making no pretense of allegiance to the Third Reich any longer.
"Five more minutes," Trevor whispered to himself, checking his watch for the seventh time in the past hour. The guard rotation would change at precisely 2100 hours if HYDRA maintained the same disciplined schedule they had followed for the past three nights of his surveillance.
The rain masked any sound he might have made as he slowly inched backward, away from his observation post and deeper into the forest that surrounded the facility. His waterproof map case contained detailed drawings of the compound's layout, guard positions, and patrol schedules—intelligence that would be invaluable to the SSR, assuming he made it back to report.
Trevor was an experienced pilot by trade, but his current assignment had little to do with aircraft. The Strategic Scientific Reserve had recruited him specifically for this mission due to his unique combination of skills: pilot training, proficiency in multiple European languages, and most importantly, previous experience with Schmidt's research facilities from aerial reconnaissance flights.
"Find out what's happening in there, and get out," Colonel Phillips had instructed during the mission briefing. "No heroics, no engagement. We need intelligence, not martyrs."
Easy to say from London, Trevor thought as he carefully made his way through the dripping forest toward his predetermined infiltration point. Not so easy when you're neck-deep in HYDRA territory with only a standard-issue sidearm and your wits as backup.
The rain had intensified, reducing visibility but also providing additional cover. Perfect conditions for what he was about to attempt. As he reached the edge of the tree line, Trevor pulled his compass from his pocket, confirming his position one final time. The facility's waste drainage tunnel should be approximately fifty yards ahead, running beneath the eastern perimeter fence.
Intel suggested the tunnel was minimally guarded, considered too narrow for human passage and protected by a grate that appeared secure from casual inspection. What HYDRA didn't know was that the SSR had acquired detailed architectural plans of the facility through a German engineer who had defected months earlier, including specifications of that very grate—and its surprisingly simple locking mechanism.
Taking a deep breath, Trevor removed his officer's cap and outer uniform jacket, stuffing them into his waterproof pack. Underneath, he wore a dark blue sweater that would blend better with the shadows. He applied a layer of mud to his face and hands, completing his improvised camouflage, then checked his watch one final time.
2058 hours. The guard rotation would begin in two minutes.
Moving in a low crouch, Trevor darted from the tree line toward the perimeter, using the sheets of rain and growing darkness as cover. The mud beneath his boots threatened to suction his feet with each step, but he maintained his footing through sheer determination.
The drainage tunnel appeared exactly where the plans had indicated—a concrete opening approximately three feet in diameter protruding from the hillside. True to the intelligence, a metal grate covered the opening, secured with a padlocked chain.
Trevor glanced toward the nearest guard tower, confirming that the searchlight was pointing in the opposite direction during the rotation. Working quickly, he removed a small metal tool from his belt and inserted it into the padlock. Thirty seconds of delicate manipulation later, the lock sprang open with a satisfying click.
Carefully removing the chain, Trevor set the grate aside just enough to allow passage. The tunnel beyond was dark and uninviting, carrying the foul odor of chemical waste mingled with more organic effluent. He wrinkled his nose in disgust but didn't hesitate. Unpleasant was still preferable to deadly, which would be the result of attempting to breach the main entrance.
The tunnel was even narrower than it had appeared, forcing Trevor to crawl on his belly through several inches of foul-smelling sludge. He focused on his breathing, taking shallow inhalations through his mouth to minimize the stench.
After what seemed an eternity but was likely only minutes, the tunnel widened slightly, allowing him to move to a hands-and-knees crawl. Ahead, a faint greenish light indicated his destination—a junction where the drainage system connected to the facility's main waste management room.
Trevor paused at the junction, listening intently for any sound of human presence. Hearing nothing beyond the mechanical hum of processing equipment, he cautiously emerged from the tunnel into a dimly lit maintenance room. Rows of pipes lined the walls, some carrying water, others less identifiable substances that glowed faintly in the minimal light.
He consulted his mental map of the facility. The main laboratory complex should be two levels above, accessible via a maintenance stairwell that, according to the defector, was rarely used by facility personnel due to its location and the unpleasant odors that permeated it.
Perfect for an uninvited guest.
Trevor cleaned himself as best he could, removing the worst of the tunnel filth before proceeding. He drew his sidearm, a suppressed Colt M1911, and held it ready as he approached the stairwell door. Pressing his ear against the metal surface, he listened for movement beyond, then slowly turned the handle.
The stairwell was concrete and utilitarian, lit by dim bulbs at each landing. Trevor ascended silently, his back pressed to the wall, pausing at each turn to listen for approaching personnel. The chemical smell grew stronger as he climbed, mixing with an acrid scent he couldn't immediately identify, something between burning metal and ozone.
At the second landing, he encountered his first obstacle—a locked door requiring a key card for entry. Trevor smiled thinly as he reached into his pack and removed what appeared to be an ordinary playing card. The seemingly innocuous item was actually one of Stark's latest gadgets, a skeleton key card embedded with experimental circuitry designed to mimic and override common electronic locks.
"This should work on standard HYDRA security systems," Stark had explained during the mission prep. "Unless they've significantly upgraded since our last intelligence update."
Trevor slid the card into the reader, holding his breath as the small light on the mechanism remained stubbornly red. Just as he was considering alternative options, the light flickered, then changed to green with a soft click.
"I owe you a scotch, Stark," Trevor muttered as he carefully opened the door, weapon raised.
The corridor beyond was brightly lit and sterile, with polished floors and white walls typical of research facilities. Remarkably, it appeared deserted. Trevor consulted the rough floor plan sketched in his memory. If the intelligence was correct, the primary research laboratory should be at the end of this hall, with the lead scientist's office adjacent to it.
That office belonged to the figure known in intelligence circles only as the "Ultra-Humanite", a pseudonym that had first appeared in intercepted HYDRA communications approximately eight months earlier. Little was known about this mysterious scientist except that he (or possibly she) had taken over a significant portion of HYDRA's super-soldier research following Schmidt's break with conventional Nazi hierarchy.
Rumors among captured HYDRA operatives suggested the Ultra-Humanite was conducting experiments on live prisoners, attempting to replicate and improve upon Erskine's formula through brutal trial and error. If true, this information alone would justify the risk of Trevor's infiltration.
Moving carefully down the corridor, Trevor noted the absence of personnel with growing unease. A facility of this importance should have been bustling with activity, even at this late hour. The emptiness suggested either faulty intelligence regarding the compound's significance, or perhaps—more worryingly—that he had wandered into a trap.
At the end of the hall stood a set of double doors marked with both the HYDRA emblem and international biohazard symbols. This had to be the main laboratory. Adjacent to it was a smaller door with a nameplate in German that translated simply as "Director."
Trevor tried the office door first, finding it unlocked. The room beyond was meticulously organized, with filing cabinets lining one wall and a large desk dominating the center. Unlike the sterile hallway, this space contained personal touches—framed diplomas (the name consistently blacked out), antiquarian books on anatomy and biology, and oddly, a small collection of primate figurines arranged on a shelf.
Working quickly, Trevor began photographing documents using the miniature camera concealed in his belt buckle—another of Stark's inventions. He moved systematically through the desk drawers, filing cabinets, and open folders, capturing as much information as possible while maintaining awareness of his limited time window.
A particular file caught his attention—labeled "Projekt Meistermenschen" (Project Master Men) in precise German script. Within were detailed notes and diagrams related to HYDRA's super-soldier program, including disturbing photographs of failed test subjects.
The documentation confirmed the worst fears of Allied intelligence, HYDRA was actively experimenting on prisoners of war in an attempt to create enhanced soldiers loyal to Schmidt. Even more concerning were references to collaboration with someone identified only as "Baron Z" almost certainly Baron Heinrich Zemo, another high-ranking HYDRA scientist whose chemical expertise was well-documented in intelligence files.
Trevor photographed every page of the file, his jaw clenching at the clinical descriptions of "test subjects" who had died in agony during the experiments. These weren't just enemy soldiers; they were human beings treated as disposable laboratory equipment.
As he replaced the file and continued his search, Trevor's gaze fell upon a colorful publication amid the scientific documents—incongruously bright against the sterile reports and diagrams. He picked it up, surprised to find himself holding a copy of Captain America Comics #7, its cover depicting the star-spangled hero punching Adolf Hitler while HYDRA agents fled in terror.
Despite the tension of the moment, Trevor allowed himself a small, grim smile. The Army had distributed thousands of these comics to troops throughout the European theater as morale boosters. Apparently, even HYDRA scientists weren't immune to curiosity about America's colorful "hero."
Trevor had met the real Steve Rogers only briefly during the Project Rebirth procedure, but he'd been impressed by the man's determination despite his then-frail physique. Seeing what the propaganda machine had turned Rogers into a caricature performing in stage shows rather than utilizing his abilities on the battlefield struck Trevor as a tremendous waste of potential.
"Phillips, you old fool," he muttered, flipping through the comic briefly before setting it aside. "You had a real soldier and turned him into an actor."
His attention was drawn to a large wall safe partially concealed behind a framed map of Europe. Such security suggested valuable contents, but attempting to crack it would take time he couldn't afford. Instead, Trevor focused on a nearby filing cabinet marked "Aktuelle Projekte" (Current Projects).
Inside, he found technical specifications for weapons systems unlike anything in the conventional German arsenal designs that incorporated the same eerie blue energy source that had powered Kruger's submarine. The schematics indicated weapons of terrifying destructive capability, far beyond conventional bombs or artillery.
Trevor was so absorbed in photographing these documents that he nearly missed the soft click of the door opening behind him. His combat instincts kicked in just in time, allowing him to dive sideways as a burst of energy scorched the wall where he had been standing seconds before. Plaster and wood erupted into dust, leaving a perfectly circular hole that revealed the adjacent room.
Rolling to his feet with the practiced efficiency of a man who had survived more firefights than he cared to remember, Trevor found himself facing a HYDRA soldier armed with a rifle-like weapon that hummed with blue energy—one of the very designs he had just been examining. Behind the soldier stood a slender figure in a white laboratory coat, face half-illuminated by the flickering office lights.
"Captain Trevor, I presume," the figure said in accented but precise English. "The SSR grows predictable in its choice of operatives."
Trevor raised his pistol, knowing it was hopelessly outmatched by the energy weapon but unwilling to surrender without resistance. His mind raced through options, cataloging possible escape routes and calculating the odds of each. None looked particularly promising.
"And you would be the so-called Ultra-Humanite?" Trevor asked, stalling for time while his eyes scanned for any potential advantage in the confined space.
A soft chuckle emerged from the shadows. "A nom de guerre that serves its purpose. I find it useful to maintain a certain... mystique." The figure stepped forward into the light, revealing features that were simultaneously ordinary and unsettling—a middle-aged man with receding hair and unremarkable features save for eyes that conveyed an intelligence so intense it bordered on madness. Those eyes studied Trevor with the clinical detachment of a scientist examining a particularly interesting insect.
"You've been quite thorough in your snooping, Captain," the Humanite continued, gesturing toward the open files. "Had you arrived twenty-four hours later, you would have found this facility entirely empty. We are in the final stages of relocation to a more secure location."
"Afraid of Allied bombers?" Trevor asked, playing for time as he assessed his options. The office had only one exit, currently blocked by his adversaries, and the window behind the desk appeared to be sealed. The air duct in the ceiling was too small for a man his size, and the walls were solid concrete beneath their veneer of wood paneling.
Another chuckle, this one containing genuine amusement. "Hardly. We simply require additional space for the next phase of our work. Project Master Men is about to enter production stage." He spoke of monstrous human experimentation with the casual tone of a businessman discussing a new product line.
Trevor's blood ran cold at the implication. "You've succeeded in replicating Erskine's formula?"
"Not precisely," the Humanite admitted, making a small gesture that caused the HYDRA soldier to step back slightly, though his weapon remained trained on Trevor. "Our approach differs significantly from Dr. Erskine's work. His fixation on preserving the subject's original personality was, frankly, a limitation. Our methods ensure absolute loyalty alongside physical enhancement."
"You mean brainwashing," Trevor translated grimly, his finger tensing slightly on the trigger of his pistol.
"Such a crude term for such elegant science." The Humanite sighed theatrically. "But enough pleasantries. While I appreciate professional curiosity, I'm afraid we can't allow you to depart with the information you've gathered."
The HYDRA soldier raised his weapon again, the blue energy core glowing brighter as it charged for another blast. Trevor knew his odds were poor, but surrender wasn't an option—not with the intelligence he now carried about weapons that could change the course of the war.
In a fluid motion that spoke of extensive combat training, Trevor kicked the desk chair toward the soldier, disrupting his aim. The energy blast went wide, hitting a filing cabinet that disintegrated in a flash of blue light, leaving nothing but a faint dusting of metal particles floating in the air. Using the momentary distraction, Trevor lunged toward the window behind the desk, firing three rapid shots through the glass.
The reinforced panes cracked but didn't shatter. Trevor threw his full weight against them, feeling the glass finally give way as he crashed through. For a terrifying moment, he was in free fall, the ground three stories below rushing up to meet him. Wind whistled past his ears as he oriented himself, trying to position for the least damaging landing possible.
His descent was broken by an awning over a loading dock, which tore under his weight but slowed him enough that his landing, while jarring, didn't result in broken bones. The canvas ripped completely, depositing him onto the concrete platform with a force that drove the air from his lungs. Trevor rolled instinctively, distributing the impact across his body rather than taking it all at once.
Alarms blared throughout the compound, their wailing cutting through the night air like banshees. Red emergency lights began to rotate, casting bloody illumination across the facility grounds. Guards shouted in German, heavy boots pounding as they rushed toward his position. Searchlights mounted on the guard towers swept across the compound, their harsh beams cutting through the darkness with mechanical precision.
Trevor forced himself to his feet, ignoring the various cuts and bruises from his improvised exit. Blood trickled down his face from a glass cut, and his left shoulder screamed in protest at each movement. Nothing broken, though—just the usual complaints of a body asked to do too much in too little time.
"There he is! Feuer frei!" A guard's voice rang out from somewhere to his right, followed immediately by the distinctive sound of a HYDRA energy weapon charging.
Trevor dove behind a stack of supply crates as blue energy sizzled through the air where he had been standing. The blast struck the loading dock wall, leaving another perfect circular hole that offered an unintended glimpse into the facility's storage area. Without hesitation, Trevor scrambled through this improvised entrance, knowing that staying in the open meant certain death.
Inside, he found himself in a dimly lit warehouse filled with wooden crates stamped with the HYDRA octopus emblem. Many were marked "VORSICHT" and "EXPLOSIV" in bold red letters—warning enough for Trevor to move carefully despite his haste. The last thing he needed was to trigger an explosion that would vaporize him alongside the intelligence he carried.
Footsteps approached from outside, accompanied by the harsh breathing of guards rushing to his last known position. Trevor moved deeper into the warehouse, ducking behind a large shipping container that offered momentary concealment. From his hiding place, he surveyed the space, calculating his next move.
The warehouse had two exits besides the loading dock—a large roll-up door likely leading to the motor pool, and a smaller personnel door that probably connected to the main facility corridor. Both would be heavily guarded within minutes. His best chance remained the motor pool; if he could secure transportation, he might still break through the perimeter before HYDRA could fully lock down the compound.
Trevor withdrew his miniature camera from his pocket, removing the film and tucking it into a waterproof pouch designed for just this purpose. He placed the pouch in an inner pocket of his jacket, closest to his body and least likely to be separated from him even in extreme circumstances. The empty camera he left on a nearby crate—if captured, it might distract his pursuers momentarily.
A sharp bark echoed through the warehouse—guard dogs. The HYDRA security forces were bringing in canine units that would make hiding nearly impossible. Trevor needed to move, and quickly.
Crouching low, he made his way toward the roll-up door, using the rows of crates and containers for cover. He had almost reached it when the personnel door burst open, admitting four guards with a massive German Shepherd straining at its leash. The dog's head came up immediately, catching Trevor's scent despite the chemical odors permeating the warehouse.
"Intruder! Section five!" the handler shouted as the dog lunged forward with a growl.
Trevor grabbed the nearest object—a metal container lid—and flung it like a discus toward the overhead lights. Glass shattered, plunging that section of the warehouse into darkness and temporarily disorienting the dog and its handlers. Using the confusion, Trevor slipped through a narrow gap between storage containers, heading for the roll-up door through a different route.
He reached the control panel and slammed his palm against the large green button. The door began to rise with agonizing slowness, its electric motor grinding loudly. Lights from the motor pool spilled in underneath the rising barrier, revealing Trevor to anyone watching from that side.
Voices shouted in German from beyond the door, and Trevor dropped to a prone position just as gunfire erupted. Conventional bullets this time, not energy weapons—small mercies. The shots pinged off the concrete floor and ricocheted around the warehouse, adding to the chaos. The dog barked furiously somewhere in the darkness, its handlers struggling to control it amid the gunfire.
The door had risen about three feet—enough for Trevor to roll under. He took a deep breath and launched himself forward, sliding beneath the barrier like a baseball player stealing home. Bullets traced his path, one grazing his calf with a sensation like a hot poker. He bit back a curse, pushing through the pain to continue his momentum.
The motor pool was a large open area filled with HYDRA vehicles—troop transports, staff cars, and—blessedly—a row of motorcycles near the main gate. Trevor scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward them, zigzagging to make himself a harder target. Guards were converging from all directions, shouting and firing sporadically.
He had almost reached the vehicles when a new figure emerged from a side entrance—a man whose proportions seemed wrong somehow. Too wide, too muscular, moving with an unnatural gait that suggested something fundamentally altered. The man wore a modified HYDRA uniform stretched tight across an impossibly broad chest, and his head seemed too small for his enhanced frame. His face was partially concealed by a mask, but what Trevor could see appeared strangely distorted, as though the underlying bone structure had been reshaped by forces it was never meant to contain.
"Prototype Vier," someone called out. "Fang ihn!"Catch him!
The enhanced soldier—clearly one of the "Master Men" mentioned in the files—let out a roar that sounded more animal than human. He charged with speed that belied his massive bulk, covering the distance between them with alarming rapidity. Trevor barely had time to draw his sidearm before the behemoth was upon him.
He fired twice, center mass. The bullets struck true but seemed to have minimal effect, as though hitting dense rubber rather than flesh. The Master Man didn't even flinch, swinging a massive fist that Trevor narrowly avoided. The blow struck a nearby jeep instead, denting the metal hood as though it were made of tin foil.
"They've made some improvements since the last model," Trevor muttered to himself, backing away while searching for any vulnerability. The creature showed none of the finesse of trained combat—just raw power and aggression, qualities apparently prioritized in the HYDRA supersoldier program.
The Master Man charged again. This time, Trevor used the creature's momentum against it, sidestepping at the last moment and helping the hulking figure along its path with a well-placed shove. The beast crashed into a stack of fuel drums, sending them toppling. Gasoline spilled across the concrete, its sharp odor cutting through the night air.
An idea formed in Trevor's mind—desperate, dangerous, but potentially effective. He retreated toward the motorcycles, drawing the Master Man after him while fumbling in his pocket for matches. The creature followed, surprisingly single-minded in its pursuit despite the chaos erupting around them as more guards poured into the motor pool.
Reaching the motorcycles, Trevor grabbed the nearest one—a sleek BMW R75 with the HYDRA emblem emblazoned on its fuel tank. He swung his leg over it while simultaneously striking a match against the ignition housing. The Master Man was only steps away, its misshapen hands outstretched to grab him.
Trevor tossed the lit match toward the spilled gasoline, then kicked the motorcycle's starter. The engine roared to life just as flames erupted across the motor pool floor, spreading rapidly toward the remaining fuel drums. The Master Man hesitated, momentarily confused by the fire blooming around its feet. That second of indecision was all Trevor needed.
He gunned the throttle, the motorcycle's tires spinning against the concrete before finding purchase. The bike shot forward, narrowly missing the Master Man's grasping hands. Trevor hunched low over the handlebars, making himself as small a target as possible as he weaved between vehicles and pursuing guards.
Behind him, the fire reached the fuel drums. The explosion rocked the entire compound, the shockwave nearly unseating Trevor as he raced toward the main gate. Flames engulfed the motor pool, illuminating the night with hellish orange light. The Master Man's roar turned from rage to pain as fire consumed its uniform, though whether the creature itself could burn remained to be seen.
The main gate loomed ahead, already closing as HYDRA personnel responded to the breach. Trevor accelerated, knowing he had one chance to make it through the narrowing gap. Energy weapons fire intensified around him, the guards apparently ordered to prevent his escape at all costs. Blue beams sliced through the night, turning patches of ground to smoking craters where they struck.
At the last possible moment, Trevor laid the motorcycle down in a controlled skid, sliding beneath the descending gate with inches to spare. Sparks flew as metal scraped against concrete, but the maneuver worked. The bike skittered across the gravel beyond the perimeter, and Trevor scrambled to right it, remounting as guards poured through a smaller personnel door in pursuit.
The road leading from the compound snaked down the mountainside in sharp switchbacks—treacherous in daylight, potentially deadly in the rainy darkness that had begun to descend. Trevor had no choice but to risk it, pushing the motorcycle to its limits as he navigated the hairpin turns. The bike's headlight carved a narrow path through the gloom, revealing mere feet of roadway at a time.
Behind him, searchlights swept the mountainside, and he could hear the rumble of larger vehicles being mobilized. The explosion would have destroyed some of their transport, but HYDRA's resources were substantial. They wouldn't abandon pursuit easily, not with what he carried.
His original extraction plan was now impossible—the rendezvous point was in the opposite direction, and pursuit was too close. Instead, Trevor would need to reach the emergency fallback position—an abandoned airfield approximately fifteen miles east where a light reconnaissance aircraft had been hidden for exactly this contingency.
Assuming he could lose his pursuers and reach it before dawn.
A sharp curve loomed out of the darkness, forcing Trevor to lean the motorcycle at a precarious angle. His knee nearly scraped the road surface as he navigated the turn, tires finding barely enough traction on the rain-slicked pavement. Behind him, he could hear engines laboring as larger vehicles attempted to match his pace on the dangerous mountain road.
The rain had intensified, reducing visibility to near zero on some stretches. Trevor relied more on instinct than sight, feeling the curves of the road through the motorcycle's handling. Rivulets of water streamed down his face, mixing with blood from his various cuts. His soaked uniform clung to his body, offering little protection against the biting mountain air. Each breath became a struggle against the cold that threatened to sap his strength and slow his reactions.
Behind him, the headlights of pursuing vehicles illuminated the curtains of rain, still too close for comfort. A burst of blue energy split the night, striking a tree just ahead of Trevor. The massive trunk disintegrated, sending the upper portion of the tree crashing onto the road. Trevor swerved violently, the motorcycle's wheels sliding on the wet pavement as he threaded between falling branches.
At a particularly sharp bend, Trevor made a split-second decision, cutting the motorcycle's lights and veering off the road onto a narrow forest trail that hadn't been on his maps. The gamble was that his pursuers would continue down the main road, at least temporarily, giving him a chance to circle back toward the airfield via a different approach.
The forest trail was barely wide enough for the motorcycle, with low-hanging branches that whipped at Trevor's face as he pushed forward. Roots and rocks threatened to unseat him with every yard, the bike's suspension working overtime to absorb the punishment of off-road travel. Despite the challenges, he maintained as much speed as he dared, knowing that distance from his pursuers was his only real advantage.