The car dropped Max off just outside the Hungarian capital.
He thanked the driver, shouldered his duffel bag, and began the long walk into Budapest. The city was alive with motion — trams humming past, chatter in multiple languages, glass buildings gleaming beside war-aged stone structures. It was beautiful, but cold in the way cities could be. Everyone was moving, but no one saw him.
He blended in.
Almost.
Locating the Station
Max stopped at a café window and stared at a reflection of the city map. He traced the red metro lines with his finger, then marked a small black dot with a smudge of dirt — Nyugati Train Station.
That's where the fight happened. That's where Taskmaster chased Natasha and Yelena. Max remembered it all from the movie.
"That's the anchor point," he muttered. "Plot begins there."
He crossed the city on foot, ducking through alleys and hopping fences when needed. Hours later, he reached the massive Nyugati Station, its arched glass ceiling towering like a cathedral of steel.
But it wasn't just a landmark — it was a battleground waiting to erupt.
Staying Hidden
Max found a spot behind the staircase near the edge of the platform — tucked out of view, surrounded by broken signage and old vending machines. Using one of his few spare shirts, he tied a makeshift mask to wrap his face, leaving only his eyes exposed. He tucked his green-and-yellow suit deeper into his duffel, not ready to wear it yet.
He sat against the wall.
And waited.
The cement was cold beneath him. He pulled his coat tighter and laid down on the rough ground. Trains came and went above, their thunder echoing like dreams of chaos. No one noticed the stranger sleeping under the station.
The Morning of Fire
Max woke with the sun cutting through dirty windows. His joints ached. His stomach growled.
Dragging himself to the public restrooms nearby, he washed his face in the cracked mirror, scrubbing away grime and blood from a cut on his lip. The cold water jolted him awake.
"This is the life of a hero," he muttered bitterly.
He returned to his spot behind the staircase, leaning back into the shadows.
Minutes passed.
Then came the sound of chaos.
The Battle Begins
There was a screech — tires? Metal?
A blur crashed through the station — a cat, yowling as it skidded across the floor. That was the signal. He tensed.
He peeked out from the corner.
There they were — Natasha Romanoff and Yelena Belova, ducking into cover near a concrete pillar. Their body language screamed trained instinct, sisters forged by survival.
And then came the monster.
Taskmaster.
The armored soldier walked with purpose, that mirrored mask gleaming under the station lights like a skull carved from obsidian. Max's breath caught in his throat.
"Damn. He's real. This is real."
Taskmaster raised a shield and charged.
Max's body screamed to move — to run. But he didn't.
He stepped out from behind the stairs.
"Hey, tin-head!" he shouted.
Taskmaster didn't hesitate. The mercenary lunged at him like a predator. Max braced himself, still holding back his speed.
I need to see where I stand. No speed. Just skill.
Bad idea.
Taskmaster slammed a knee into Max's stomach, doubled him over, and flung him into a pillar. The blow rattled his brain.
He tried to counter — a left hook, a wild kick — but Taskmaster deflected each move with brutal grace. A punch landed square in Max's face, dropping him like a bag of bricks.
Blood hit the floor. His ribs screamed.
Taskmaster stepped over him, eyes scanning for Natasha and Yelena, then moved on, dismissing Max like he wasn't worth finishing.
Retreat and Reflection
Max groaned, dragging himself into the shadows.
He wiped blood from his mouth, coughing.
"Okay. No more ego trips," he wheezed.
He stayed low as the fight between the sisters and Taskmaster moved deeper into the station. He watched — careful now — following from a distance.
They're moving fast. Natasha just tossed that grenade — Yelena's got the antidotes. This is the part where they escape the rooftop with the motorcycle…
He smiled through the pain.
"Still on script."
Max pulled his hoodie tighter, slipping through the city unnoticed, tracking the pair through the chaos. His green-and-yellow suit was still packed, untouched.
"I'm not ready for the costume yet," he whispered. "Not until I earn it."
But soon…
Soon, he would join the story — and when he did, he wouldn't hold back.
Not again.