They moved fast.
Faster than most — but not faster than Max.
After their uneasy truce in the safehouse, Natasha had reluctantly allowed Max to tag along. Not that she had much choice — Max made it clear he'd follow her either way. Yelena had squinted at him with suspicion and mild disgust, muttering something about "cosplaying weirdos."
But he proved himself when it counted.
They needed a quick infiltration into the high-security Siberian prison where Alexei Shostakov, the infamous Red Guardian, was held. Max ran recon — scouting the mountains, zipping in and out unseen, drawing a crude map with every guard's rotation timed to the second. He didn't sleep. Didn't stop. He had something to prove.
And when it all went to hell mid-breakout — as it always did — Max was the one who cleared the snowstorm-deafened path with blinding speed. Disarming towers. Cutting ropes. Pulling Alexei free from falling debris just seconds before he would've been buried alive.
Alexei wheezed, brushing snow off his frosted beard. "Who… is the green clown?"
Max grinned. "I'm the guy that just saved your patriotic ass."
Yelena rolled her eyes. "We're collecting strays now?"
Natasha said nothing.
They took off in a stolen helicopter. It was cold. Cramped. Loud. Alexei wouldn't shut up about his glory days and fighting Captain America. Max mostly ignored him. His attention drifted — to the horizon, to the quiet between words, to the growing sense that they were being watched.
The Farm
Melina's safehouse lay nestled in the Russian countryside, hidden beneath layers of lies and pine trees. It felt surreal walking into a kitchen where a false family had once played pretend.
Max kept to the edge of the room, listening.
Dinner was… awkward.
Alexei tried to reconnect with Yelena, only to be met with sharp retorts and decades of resentment. Natasha stayed cold, bottled up, focused on the mission. Melina, ever composed, stirred soup and dissected their psychology like it was part of a lab report.
Max said little.
He sat at the end of the table, half-shadowed, his Kick-Ass suit dusty and frayed. The family drama wasn't his. But it stirred something in him. A phantom ache. A reminder that he didn't belong anywhere — not here, not back where he came from.
When Melina finally revealed she had once worked for the Red Room — and still had Dreykov's secrets in her lab — it wasn't a bombshell for Max.
He'd already guessed.
But then came the snap.
Literally.
A snap of fingers. A signal.
Max's instincts fired milliseconds too late.
Pneumatic darts struck his neck, thigh, and shoulder. Paralyzing agents. He collapsed to one knee, trying to blur his molecules into motion — but it was like swimming in cement. Everything slowed. Darkened.
Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw Yelena go stiff as she fought off two Red Room Widows breaching through a hidden trapdoor. Natasha lunged for her pistol — too late. Alexei roared, fists swinging wide, catching one of them in the ribs before three others tackled him down.
Max hit the floor hard. He could barely move.
"Damn it… Melina…"
She stood in the doorway, stone-faced. Not smug — not even angry.
Just resigned.
"Forgive me. It was the only way to get us to Dreykov."
Then the black hoods came down.
Captured
When Max came to, he was in a cell.
Metal walls. Harsh lights. The smell of antiseptic and plastic.
His wrists were bound in reinforced restraints made to dampen kinetic energy. Someone had done their homework.
Through the glass, he could see Natasha slumped on a bench, Yelena pacing, fuming. Alexei was gone. Probably in another holding bay.
Max flexed his fingers, testing his limits. The drugs were wearing off.
He still had speed — just not full access.
But something worse gnawed at him.
He had let them get captured.
He had failed.
Worse — he had let himself believe, even for a moment, that this family was whole again. That he could be a part of something. That there was a place for him.
"Get up, Max."
He sat forward.
The game wasn't over yet.
If Dreykov wanted a war — he was about to get one.