Marvelous Meditations

Nathan pressed his back against the wall, his breath steady despite the gunfire roaring down the hallway. The flashes of muzzle fire flickered across the cold walls, brief bursts of orange cutting through the dim lighting.

He had expected resistance—this was HYDRA, after all—but thirty guns waiting in ambush? That was a little excessive, even for them.

He exhaled slowly, glancing at Strucker, who stood beside him, rigid with tension. "Let me guess," Nathan said, voice dry. "That's the armory, isn't it?"

Strucker gave a smug nod. "That's right." His lips curled into something close to satisfaction. "If you're going to surrender, now is your chance. Any other alternative will result in your death."

Nathan just smiled, shaking his head. "Yeah, that's not happening."

He turned to Strucker fully now, tilting his head slightly as he regarded him. "But speaking of inevitable ends..." He let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching as Strucker's expression shifted.

The HYDRA officer tensed, his calculating mind no doubt racing through possible outcomes. "Wait—"

Nathan didn't give him the chance.

He raised the pistol and put a bullet clean through Strucker's forehead.

The shot echoed through the hall, a sharp, definitive crack that briefly overpowered the barrage of gunfire ahead. Strucker's body jerked backward, his eyes going glassy before he crumpled to the floor.

Nathan barely spared the corpse a glance as he slid the gun backward to check the chamber. Empty.

He let out a quiet sigh before tossing the pistol aside without hesitation. He had never intended to rely on it in the first place.

Not when he had the Floater.

Nathan rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers as he took a single, measured step toward the hallway's end. Thirty guns. Thirty bodies waiting to be stacked.

Nathan exhaled slowly, centering himself. Thirty against one. The odds weren't ideal, but they were far from impossible. His gaze drifted to Strucker's lifeless body, sprawled out on the floor, blood pooling beneath his head. A slow smirk tugged at Nathan's lips as an idea took shape. Might as well get some extra use out of you.

With little effort, he hoisted Strucker's corpse and slung it in front of him like a macabre shield. Dead weight, literally. He adjusted his grip, ensuring the body covered as much of him as possible, then took a deep breath and turned the corner.

Gunfire erupted instantly.

Bullets slammed into Strucker's corpse, jerking it violently in Nathan's arms as he advanced. The stench of blood and burning fabric filled his nostrils, but he ignored it, his focus razor-sharp, eyes scanning the battlefield in microseconds.

Nearest cover—four meters ahead.

Shooters—spread along the corridor, staggered positions.

Priority targets—those closest to him, those with clear lines of sight.

Time to even the odds.

With a silent command, the Floater shot into the air like a phantom bullet, invisible as it morphed into a thin, needle-like bolt.

One of the Hydra operatives barely had time to flinch before the Floater punched clean through his skull. He collapsed mid-scream, his weapon clattering against the floor.

Confusion rippled through the ranks. The soldiers faltered, momentarily unsure of what just happened.

Nathan seized the moment.

He hurled Strucker's corpse aside—the once-imposing HYDRA officer now nothing more than a bullet-ridden husk—and dived into cover, landing beside the first downed operative. Without hesitation, he pried the rifle from the dead man's hands, his grip settling around the familiar weight of the weapon.

Above him, the Floater continued its silent slaughter.

It moved with surgical precision, carving through the air and striking with lethal accuracy. One by one, heads snapped back as the unseen force cut them down, the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground drowned out by the frantic, disorganized gunfire.

Nathan moved with them, stepping out of cover with an eerily calm expression. The rifle in his hands barked to life, his shots finding their marks with practiced ease. He didn't waste bullets, didn't fire blindly—every pull of the trigger was deliberate, every shot meant to kill.

The world blurred. Gunfire. Screams. The metallic scent of blood.

And through it all, Nathan felt something dangerously familiar creeping in.

The adrenaline. The clarity. The thrill.

This was what he had lived for once—the rush of combat, the singular focus, the way everything else in life faded into insignificance when he was in the fight. Before Lily, before he had realized the extent of the atrocities he'd committed, this had been his existence.

And even though he hated to admit it… he missed it.

His finger tightened around the trigger, his storm-gray eyes dark with something unspoken.

He'd kill every last one of them.

...

Nathan sat slumped against the cold metal wall, his chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths. The air was thick with the stench of blood and cordite, the floor around him littered with bodies—limp, broken, and utterly lifeless.

His own clothes were drenched in crimson, but some of it was his own. Only a few scratches. Yet, his right hand trembled.

He lifted it, watching the subtle but relentless shaking, fingers twitching as if grasping for something unseen. Not fear. Not exhaustion. Something far worse.

Excitement.

Nathan clenched his jaw and grasped his right wrist with his left hand, trying to still the tremors, but it didn't help. The itch was there. That gnawing, restless hunger.

He wanted to keep going, wanted to find the next battlefield, the next fight, the next war to drown himself in.

The thought grew more tempting with each passing second. Why not? Why keep fighting against his own nature?

Why keep waking up to flashes of fire and the smell of burning flesh? Why keep closing his eyes only to see the hollow faces of the dead staring back at him?

Why not just lose himself again? Why not embrace it? It would be so easy...

Nathan's breathing deepened, his pulse hammering in his ears, the bloodlust whispering to him like an old friend. His vision darkened at the edges, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white.

Then, he forced himself to take a slow breath.

And another.

And another.

With the last vestiges of his will, he closed his eyes and conjured her face.

Lily.

That soft smile. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. The warmth in her voice when she called for him. It was distant, fragile, like a fading photograph in his mind.

But it was enough.

His pulse slowed. His grip loosened. The shaking in his hand began to subside.

Nathan let out a quiet exhale, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips as he muttered, "Even after all these years… I still think you should've been the one to walk away, not me."

His expression twisted—not pain, not regret, but something more complicated, something he couldn't quite name. "I'm trying to be better, but…"

He trailed off, shaking his head. What was the point? He was talking to a ghost, to someone who wasn't there.

A few more seconds passed before his face hardened, his usual detached calm settling over him once more.

The moment was gone.

Nathan exhaled once more, rolled his shoulders, and pushed himself to his feet. He spared one last glance at the bloodbath around him before turning toward the armory.

He still had work to do.

...

Nathan hoisted Strucker's bullet-riddled corpse up, adjusting his grip so that the ruined face aligned perfectly with the retina scanner. For a brief second, he wondered if the system would reject it, but then—

A soft beep.

The doors slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing the dimly lit interior of the armory. He let Strucker drop like a sack of meat.

Nathan stepped inside, and as he did, the room's automated lights flickered on, casting a sterile glow over rows of containment units, weapon racks, and reinforced storage cases.

Strange, unfamiliar devices lined the walls—prototypes and experimental weapons he didn't recognize. Some bore the Hydra insignia, others had more cryptic markings, likely stolen tech from other organizations.

Advanced rifles, glowing power cells, sleek armored suits, even a few things that looked Chitauri in origin. But Nathan didn't waste time gawking.

He was here for what was rightfully his.

Moving with purpose, he sifted through the racks and cases until he found what belonged to him.

First, his coat—dark, reinforced, still carrying the weight of countless battles. He slipped it on, adjusting the collar as the fabric settled against his shoulders like a second skin.

Then, his magnetic boots—the worn metal gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. Perfectly intact.

Next, his twin energy pistols—matte black, compact, with their familiar adjustable power settings. He checked the charge levels—full. He holstered them with a smooth, practiced motion.

Then the sidearms—a selection of high-grade pistols compact SMGs and a few throwing knives. He grabbed what he could carry, slinging extra magazines across his belt.

And finally— The Muramasa Blade.

It rested on a long metal table, still sheathed and wrapped in a simple white cloth.

Nathan picked it up, feeling the weight of it in his hands. The steel was silent, but he knew what lay beneath—the cursed metal, the whispers in the dark.

His fingers twitched. His first instinct was to unwrap it, to tear the cloth away, to draw the blade and feel its edge, to be ready for Crossbones when he inevitably appeared.

But Nathan hesitated.

He exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the scabbard. His mind was already frayed, stretched thin by battle, by ghosts, by the creeping itch of violence. If he unsheathed it now… it might be enough to push him over.

After a long moment, he shook his head and slung the blade over his back, leaving the cloth intact.

Not now. Not yet.

Adjusting his gear, Nathan turned his attention back to the armory, scanning the room for anything else useful. He was armored, armed, and ready—but he wasn't leaving without making sure he had every advantage.

And if Hydra had anything worth taking? He'd make sure they never got it back.

Nathan's gaze swept over the armory once more, taking in the sheer variety of weapons, devices, and experimental prototypes stored within. There was too much to inspect by hand—if he wanted to get out of here quickly, he'd need to streamline the process.

His eyes landed on a console at the far end of the room.

Bingo.

Moving swiftly, he approached the terminal and activated it. The screen flickered to life, displaying a classified inventory manifest detailing every item stored in the facility. He scrolled through the list, scanning descriptions and attached schematics, searching for anything that fit his style.

Most of what he saw was either too heavy, too unwieldy, or outright impractical. Oversized plasma cannons, experimental railguns, exo-suits that probably required a team of technicians to maintain. Not his thing.

Some of the more compact weapons showed promise, but the word "Experimental" appeared far too often for his liking. Hydra wasn't exactly known for quality control—half of their "cutting-edge" tech had a nasty habit of blowing up in the user's hands.

Still, just as he was about to move on, something caught his eye.

A picture—metallic ingots with a smooth, bluish-silver sheen.

Nathan clicked on the file, and his brows lifted as the description appeared on the screen.

Material: Vibranium

Quantity: 10.6 kg (approx. 23.3 lbs.)

He let out a low whistle.

Jackpot.

He hadn't been expecting much from this little detour—just his gear and a few extra weapons—but Vibranium? That changed things. This wasn't just some high-tech weapon; this was the most valuable metal on the planet. Lighter than steel, more durable than anything short of adamantium, and able to absorb kinetic energy like a sponge.

If he could get his hands on this… The possibilities were endless.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. If getting kidnapped always led to something like this, maybe he wouldn't mind getting snatched every weekend.

Still, he wasn't out of the woods yet.

Securing the Vibranium was one thing—getting out of here alive was another. And there was still one last obstacle standing between him and freedom.

Crossbones.

Nathan exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening against the console.

This wasn't over yet.

...

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