"So, the grand takeaway is zero actual answers and about fifty new questions," Peter grunted, hauling himself out of the damp sewer. He shoved the heavy iron manhole cover back into place and reached down, grabbing Cindy's wrist to hoist her onto the alley pavement. Cindy Moon, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, landed silently beside him.
"We know my dad cracked the spider-genetics problem because he had help from a totem bearer," Peter continued, pacing a tight circle. "But that doesn't track with our primary investigation."
He turned back to the hole, extending a hand. Felicia grabbed his forearm, vaulting up with feline grace.
"Unless," Felicia said, brushing ancient dirt off her knees, "Hydra is exactly like your dad."
Peter froze. "Run that by me again?"
"Think about it," she said, her eyes narrowing in the dim alley light. "What if Hydra's power doesn't come from stolen Third Reich technology? What if they're tapping into a pantheon of gods or totems, just like your spider-powers? And what if your dad found out?"
Peter blinked, his jaw dropping a fraction. "You don't actually think..."
"It fits, doesn't it?"
Peter's mind immediately shifted into overdrive. In the cinematic universe, Hydra started with Hive, the exiled Inhuman. In the comic books, Hydra sprang from the corrupted Spear of Imhotep. Earth-616's local brand supposedly evolved straight from the Nazi SS occult divisions. But what if it went deeper? If Hydra predated the Nazis, leaning on literal divine power, and Richard Parker had stumbled across that truth... that would absolutely put him in the crosshairs.
Why does every Marvel conspiracy have to involve ancient deities? Peter sighed, rubbing his temples.
Regardless, Taranto was a dead end. They needed to rest, link back up with the main tour group tomorrow, and swap Peter back in for his LMD before anyone noticed. Fighting the Elementals took priority. Pitching wild god-conspiracies to Nick Fury without hard proof wouldn't accomplish anything.
Down below, in the crushing dark of the ancient temple, the swarm of Taranto spiders surged forward. They swallowed the statues of Neith and Anansi once more. A lone figure stepped out from the shadows. With a flick of their wrist, the shattered masonry of the sewer wall floated upward, locking perfectly back into place.
Hours after Peter and the girls caught the Wild Pack transport out of Taranto, two heavy motorcycles tore down the rural Italian highway.
Steve Rogers slowed his Harley to a halt. His earpiece clicked. Spider-Man has vacated the perimeter. Hostiles incoming. Maintain cover.
"Good news and bad news, Logan," Steve said, killing the engine. "The kid is gone. We don't have to worry about collateral damage. The bad news is our welcoming committee just arrived."
Logan flared his nostrils, taking a deep breath of the Mediterranean air. "I smell 'em."
Steve didn't have his usual vibranium shield for this op. He drew a heavy combat knife and racked the slide on a 9mm pistol. He vaulted off the bike, sliding into the thick brush lining the road. "Feels just like the old days."
A high-pitched whistle cut through the air. Logan didn't even have time to curse before a grenade impacted his motorcycle's gas tank.
The explosion was deafening. A fireball swallowed Logan whole, throwing his burning body into the dirt.
Steve counted to three. His instincts flared. He threw himself into a lateral roll just as a broadsword cleaved through the space where his neck had been a millisecond prior.
The attacker wore a white hood and a skull-faced mask. He carried a kite shield and a heavy sword.
"Anthony Masters," Steve said, shifting his weight into a combat stance. "Taskmaster."
Masters cocked his head.
"You used to run training drills for S.H.I.E.L.D.," Steve continued, his eyes darting to the ridge behind the mercenary. "Why are you working for the people trying to burn it down? And who's your backup?"
Through the smoke, a second figure emerged. Clad in black tactical gear. A gleaming metal arm reflecting the firelight. Bucky. The Winter Soldier. The operative who assassinated Richard and Mary Parker.
"Interesting," Taskmaster mused, his synthesized voice echoing from the mask. "I don't recognize your stance. You aren't one of the agents I trained. Fury really is desperate, sending green recruits to stop us."
Steve didn't waste breath arguing. He leveled the 9mm and fired three rapid shots, lunging forward in the same heartbeat. Taskmaster deflected the rounds with his shield and threw a brutal counter-kick.
The mercenary expected a normal human. He didn't expect a Super Soldier. Steve slipped inside the guard, moving twice as fast as Masters calculated, and clamped a hand over the rim of the man's shield.
Up on the ridge, the Winter Soldier tracked the melee through his grenade launcher's sights. He prepared to fire on Steve. Then, movement caught his eye.
From the center of the flaming wreckage, the burning corpse stood up.
Logan cracked his neck. His skin was already stitching itself back together over charred muscle. The Winter Soldier pivoted and fired a volley of grenades directly at him.
"Ah. Enhanced," Taskmaster noted, glancing at the explosions. He yanked his shield free from Steve's grip with a cold laugh. "Strength isn't everything, rookie. Let me give you a free lesson in applied combat."
In a fluid, terrifyingly precise motion, Taskmaster sheathed his broadsword and slung his shield over his back. He drew a combat knife and a 9mm pistol. He dropped into the exact same tactical stance Steve was currently holding.
Steve stared at his own mirror image. He let out a long, heavy sigh. "Are you serious?"
Ignoring the barrage of explosions leveling the road behind them, Steve charged. He traded a flurry of rapid-fire strikes with Taskmaster. Knives clashed. Sparks flew. Steve fired; Taskmaster slipped the shot and countered with the exact same parry Steve had used five seconds prior. The mercenary was absorbing his fighting style in real-time.
He thinks he has me figured out, Steve realized. Masters was analyzing his physical metrics, calculating every feint and block.
Steve feinted left, dropped low, and simply stepped aside.
Taskmaster thrust his blade into empty air. Before he could recover, a wall of muscle and charred yellow-and-blue Kevlar stepped into the gap.
"Just like we planned," Steve said, not even looking back as he sprinted up the ridge toward the Winter Soldier. "He's all yours."
Taskmaster squared his shoulders. He shifted his grip on his knife, preparing to perfectly replicate this new opponent's brawling style.
Logan sneered. SNIKT.
Six adamantium claws slid from his knuckles, catching the firelight.