[ Iliad ]
Hill seemed to be talking to the air, voice calm as ever, and Daisy nodded in cold agreement. Their body language was enough to confirm the latest hallway gossip: the two women were not exactly best friends. Several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents traded uneasy glances, whispering speculations. Meanwhile, a few of the Hydra plants on board were quietly cheering like kids watching a fight from the back of the cafeteria.
But their opinions didn't matter. The USS Iliad groaned as it sliced into the Antarctic ice, breaking apart sheets of frozen sea with brute steel force. The real battle was on the horizon, and none of the agents—Hydra or S.H.I.E.L.D.—dared to joke around now. They were bundling into thermal gear, strapping on weapons, and double-checking ammo counts. Nobody wanted to die cold and sloppy.
"The enemy hasn't discovered us yet," Black Widow reported crisply, her voice steady over the comms.
"I don't see anything unusual here either," Hawkeye added, perched up high like a frozen gargoyle with arrows.
Daisy acknowledged them with a nod. "Maintain surveillance. Report anything that breathes wrong."
With that, she moved to the next phase. Leading the tech squad, she infiltrated the Nazi base's surveillance system. The base had modern hardware—military-grade systems Daisy had already poked through during investigation earlier. She'd left a tidy little backdoor in their firewalls like a calling card. Now, her assigned tech agents went to work generating clean-loop footage to deceive the base's cameras.
Sixty years of comfortable peace had softened the enemy. Sure, the Hammer of the Goddess of Winter had slowed their aging, but not their brains. The soldiers lounging in that base were far from the elite that once terrorized Europe. Most of them looked like they'd been pulled straight from a retirement home cosplay event.
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[ Nazi Base, Antarctica ]
The attack began with a stealth insertion from the first wave. Their camouflage gear was rendered useless the moment Black Widow sabotaged the jamming field. Nazi guards emerged blinking into the whiteout storm, barely reacting before S.H.I.E.L.D.'s special ops hit them like a sledgehammer.
Rumlow, ever the battle addict, led the charge. Say what you will about his Hydra connections—on the battlefield, the man was a symphony of violence. He moved like a predator, weapons flowing between his hands like extensions of his will. Nazi guards barely had time to raise their rifles before he reduced them to twitching bodies in the snow.
For a moment, Daisy almost admired him. If you ignored the whole "traitorous Hydra goon" thing, Rumlow was a one-man army. His aim was surgical, his movements economical, and his ability to lead under fire unnervingly effective.
He wasn't an agent, not really. Fury once said the guy was more soldier than spy—like a tank with a moral blindspot. Daisy had to agree. And today, that tank cleared the way into the base so smoothly it made her suspicious.
A large number of elite SHIELD agents swarmed in. Seeing Rumlow shooting one person after another without mercy, the Hydra members no longer cared about the Red Flower and White Oxen were all from the same family and pointed their guns at the Nazis.
Casualties are inevitable, but SHIELD has the advantage of being prepared and fighting against the unprepared, so the outcome is actually no suspense.
"Kill all those who are armed, and detain those who surrender." Daisy issued the order on the bridge. She did not go into battle herself yet.
John Garrett and his son-figure Grant Ward followed close behind, commanding the second strike team. Garrett was showing signs of wear—age, health, probably karma—but his instincts were sharp. His voice boomed over the comms like a war drum as he directed their assault.
Ward, meanwhile, looked like a man on a mission. Probably still trying to find a chance to use the classic "beauty trap" to rescue Daisy. But alas, Daisy was wrapped in thermal gear, layered like a stylish snowman with cheekbones. There was no damsel to save. Just a very cold, very unimpressed woman in charge.
Ward, with his emotional daydreams crushed under icy reality, focused his frustrations into punching Nazis. It worked out well for everyone involved.
John Garrett, a veteran agent of the same generation as Nick Fury, has begun to suffer from health problems.
The old agent had a rather unfashionable slicked-back haircut and a resonant voice. His fighting ability was ingrained in his bones and had become an instinct. He relied on his rich experience to command his men to fight, and with his experience and the Grant Ward's cooperation, the two of them led the team to suppress a large number of Nazis.
The third team—Coulson and May—was having a rougher time. Somehow, the soft-spoken old-school agent and the once-civilian-now-slightly-unhinged May got stuck at a bottleneck staircase, pinned by a surprising number of stubborn defenders.
May, never one for subtlety, finally snapped. With a primal shout, she launched herself into the crowd like a kung-fu meteor, fists blazing. Wing Chun, Baji, and raw vengeance turned the tide. Coulson followed, weapon drawn but mostly in awe. By the time they broke through, the stairwell was painted in broken helmets and regret.
Among the three teams, Rumlow's team advanced the fastest. This tough guy who told Captain America that it was not a "personal grudge" and rubbed Falcon to the ground seemed to be born for the battlefield. Any object in his hands could be turned into a weapon. Although his movements were not fast, he treated the enemies like playing the piano, killing them one by one according to their distance.
Back at the command bridge, reports rolled in.
"Gate One and Gate Two secured," came Rumlow's crisp update.
One minute later, "Underground escape passage controlled," Garrett confirmed.
Still nothing from Coulson. Daisy frowned and dispatched Black Widow and Hawkeye to assist. Three minutes later, "The helipad has been occupied."
The base was sealed. Daisy ordered the next phase—capture the power room and prevent any chance of a self-destruct. Then she rose from her chair and stretched her spine like a queen preparing to claim her winter kingdom.
She'd stayed behind so far—not out of fear, but because it was freezing outside. Fashion over frostbite was a losing battle, and Daisy was not about to stuff herself into five layers like a potato just to shoot a couple grunts.
Still, there was only so long she could pretend the bridge was warm. She adjusted her upgraded combat suit—Kevlar with titanium weave, fancy, insulated, durable. It wasn't quite her dream design (the adamantium prototype was still being worked on), but it would do.
"I'm going in," she said. And then, with a dramatic turn, "Follow me!"
She leapt off the bridge ramp and hit the snow like a comet. Truth be told, she just wanted to warm up. Running into a Nazi base filled with bullets seemed like a decent solution.
The agents behind her didn't know that. All they saw was their commander charging like an avenging Valkyrie. Inspired, they followed with wild energy, Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. alike racing each other to be first through the doors.
Inside, chaos reigned.
The agents split and fanned out across designated sectors, cleaning house with brutal efficiency. Daisy fired two precise shots of her own—no wasted bullets, no unnecessary blood. Just enough to say she participated.
Meanwhile, Hill led her own squad with icy precision. No theatrics, no yelling. Just swift, lethal accuracy. Her shots landed exactly where they needed to, cutting through Nazi defenses like a scalpel through silk.
The battle raged for two hours.
When the gunfire finally faded, Daisy stood at the heart of the Nazi base surrounded by victory. Reports streamed in like music.
Hydra hadn't turned. Not yet. With no clear order from above, and Rumlow's casually executing Nazis left and right, the embedded traitors stayed in character. For now.
This was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s golden generation. Daisy knew it. Agents disguised as bureaucrats turned out to be combat gods. The thousand SHIELD elites moved like a machine. Against them, the 3,000 Nazis—soft, surprised, and under-equipped—didn't stand a chance.
By the end, many of the enemy had fallen without ever touching their weapons.
The base was theirs.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]