The second leg of the Midtown High European tour was, miraculously, completely devoid of homicidal sandstorms. Madrid offered a rare moment to actually breathe. The Elementals had been thoroughly routed the night prior, and Silvija Sablinova's Wild Pack had the city's perimeter locked down tight. It didn't look like the giant monsters would be making a comeback anytime soon.
Peter, Gwen, and Cindy sat in the corner booth of a quiet, sunlit café. The time difference was brutal. Spain sat geographically in the Greenwich Mean Time zone, but stubbornly adhered to Central European Time. That meant when the Midtown students' alarms blared at seven in the morning, the sky was pitch black, and their biological clocks screamed that it was barely five. The shops were mostly filled with confused, jet-lagged tourists.
Gwen stabbed a piece of scrambled egg with her fork. "So. The sky turned bright red last night because you fought a giant lava monster."
"Molten Man," Peter corrected around a mouthful of toast. "Technically, he's a mass of superheated liquid metal. In extreme situations, he goes supernova and self-destructs. Mark Raxton. Nasty temper."
Gwen chewed slowly, staring out the café window. She ran the tactical math in her head. For stealth-oriented operators, wide-area elemental attacks were a death sentence. You couldn't sneak up on an exploding sun. Unlimited regeneration, immunity to physical trauma, and raw matter manipulation. If the Elementals had spotted Gwen, they wouldn't have just fought her; they would have cooked her alive.
She traced the rim of her ceramic mug, her expression tight.
"What are you thinking about?" Peter asked. He swiped through an interactive map of Madrid on his phone. "I'm trying to figure out where we should go. I've got the Prado Museum, the Royal Palace—"
"Put the phone away, Peter," Gwen interrupted, reaching across the table to press his device flat against the wood. "No itineraries today. Let's just walk and see where we end up."
Peter blinked. He looked at Cindy. Cindy took a slow sip of her black coffee and gave a single, firm nod.
Peter smiled. "Aimless wandering it is."
Rome, Italy.
Beneath the ancient streets of Rome, the catacombs hid more than just the dead. The sprawling subterranean aqueducts and burial chambers were the perfect staging ground for things that should have died decades ago.
Gunfire echoed through the damp, claustrophobic stone tunnels. Steve Rogers—currently operating under the highly imaginative S.H.I.E.L.D. alias "Agent Captain"—dove behind a crumbling stone sarcophagus. Stone chips showered over his shoulders as high-caliber rounds chewed the masonry.
Steve didn't flinch. He leaned out, leveled his salvaged assault rifle, and fired two controlled, precise bursts into the dark. The hostile gunfire at the far end of the corridor ceased instantly. Two bodies hit the dirt.
Steve dropped the empty magazine and slammed a fresh one home. He crouched low, waiting in the shadows as Logan moved up beside him.
"Not having a shield is a real headache," Steve muttered.
Logan grunted, keeping his Adamantium claws retracted to maintain their cover. "And calling yourself 'Captain' while we're undercover is real subtle, Rogers. What's next? You gonna paint a star on your chest?"
"Clear the path, Eyepatch."
Logan flared his nostrils. He inhaled sharply, then froze. "Someone's coming."
Steve raised his rifle. "Hostile?"
"I smell..." Logan bared his teeth. "Heat. Burning."
A figure stepped out of the gloom at the far end of the tunnel. He didn't carry a flashlight. He didn't need one. Blinding orange fire wreathed his entire body, casting dancing, erratic shadows against the ancient brickwork.
Steve's grip tightened on the rifle. "Jim Hammond. It really is him."
The original Human Torch. A living, synthetic weapon from World War II.
"Intel was right," Steve said, his voice dropping to a grim whisper. "He went AWOL in Madripoor after Essex lost control of him. The syndicate behind the Super Soldier expansion projects must have recovered his chassis and wiped his brain."
"Yeah, great history lesson," Logan growled, backing up a step. "We're in a stone pipe. Nowhere to dodge."
Hammond didn't speak. He simply raised both hands.
A torrential, concentrated wave of white-hot fire erupted from his palms, filling the entire diameter of the tunnel. It surged toward them like a physical wall of plasma.
Steve didn't hesitate. He tackled Logan.
He slammed the mutant into the dirt, putting Logan's dense, Adamantium-laced body directly between himself and the incoming inferno. The firestorm washed over them. Logan's flesh blistered and blackened instantly, his healing factor overwhelmed by the sheer, sustained thermal output. Logan went completely limp, knocked unconscious by the agonizing shock.
Steve squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath, and grabbed Logan by the collar of his burning jacket. Ignoring the blistering heat tearing at his own skin, Steve dragged the unconscious mutant backward, sliding out of the direct line of fire and dragging them both into a narrow, branching side-tunnel.
The roaring flames abruptly ceased.
Steve pressed his back against the cool stone, gasping for oxygen. His clothes smoked. He strained his ears, listening.
At the end of the tunnel, a synthesized voice crackled through Hammond's comms link. It was loud enough to echo in the dead silence of the catacombs.
"Stand down, Torch. Do not pursue."
"The enemy operatives have a high probability of survival," Hammond replied, his voice devoid of all humanity.
"They are ordinary agents. Even elite assets have limits," the voice scoffed dismissively. "Leave them to the Winter Soldier. He will sanitize the site. I have a new priority for you. Spider-Man has stolen one of our key assets in Madrid. Retrieve Molten Man, and eliminate the spider."
"Understood, Dr. Zola."
Footsteps faded as Hammond flew back up the tunnel shaft.
In the dark, Steve Rogers wiped a smear of soot from his face. His blue eyes hardened into ice.
Arnim Zola.
The architect of Hydra's science division was still alive.