Eddie Brock — Roleplayer Guild

FAVELA ESTRELA D’ALVA
RIO DE JANEIRO
BRAZIL

William “Buck” Richlen made his way down the winding streets of the favela, packages tucked under his arm. With his fair skin and close-cropped blonde hair -- the same shade as that which sprouted through the gap in the front of his shirt -- the American was an odd sight in this part of the world. Estrela D’Alva was far off the beaten path, not one of those sanitized favelas which drew tourists wanting to gawk at the poor. Just in the walk from the post office, Buck passed no less than three groups of boys toting refurbished rifles. They paid the gringo no mind. They were genial enough once you got to know them -- just kids who had fallen through the cracks of society, been forced to grow up too quick.

As Buck turned the corner, he almost found his head taken off by a stray soccer ball. The shirtless, barefoot children playing in the dirt giggled at him. In a few short years, he knew, they would be the ones sitting on the corner, resting rifles in their laps. Buck stopped to retrieve the ball, which was a hand-me-down's hand-me-down. A few more kicks like that, and the laces were liable to finally separate altogether. Less than five years ago, the World Cup had been played only a few miles from here, and yet the children still could not afford a new ball. He rolled the ball back towards them, saying, “Tenha cuidado da próxima vez, sim?” But they had already run off to resume their game. He smiled and shook his head.

It was a pleasant afternoon, so Buck elected to take the long way home. This route took him straight through the heart of the favela. The market was crawling with people who had the same idea; they crowded the tables and stalls, bartering with merchants over fresh fish from the coast, butcher's cuts of steak, and other consumable goods. Buck wandered over to his favorite stand: a farmer who brought bushels of fruit from the interior. As Buck pawed through the day's offerings of tangerines -- so fresh that the smell of citrus permeated his nose -- he saw a small figure approaching. “Bom dia, Luca,” Buck said without looking up.

Luca was the farmer's son, a wisp of a boy with skin so tanned as to make him appear almost African. The mop of hair atop his head nearly extended past his eyebrows. “Bom dia, Senhor Richlen,” Luca answered. He straightened his striped t-shirt, which -- by virtue of being about three sizes too big -- was nearly falling off his shoulder.

Buck held a tangerine up to the light, examining its color. “Você terminou o livro que eu te dei?” the American asked.

“Quase,” the boy replied.

“Boa,” Buck smiled. He looked over at Luca and said, “Eu acho que talvez o Moby Dick seja o próximo.” Finally, he had collected the fruit of his choosing. Opening a paper bag, he deposited the tangerines inside. He set the bag down on the table and reached for his wallet.

Luca peeked inside the bag. “Você não quer experimentar as papaias? Eles são muito bons hoje.” Buck couldn't say whether Luca had the making of a good farmer, but he certainly had a salesman's disposition.

“Talvez na próxima vez,” Buck conceded. He drew a five real note from his wallet and handed it to Luca. As the boy began producing change, Buck held up a hand and said, “Mantê-la.”

Luca beamed. “Obrigado, senhor.” Enthusiastically, he rolled the American's bag closed and passed it back to him. As Buck put his wallet away, Luca leaned in close; in the American's native tongue, the boy whispered, “Hail Hydra.”

"Hail Hydra." Buck smiled and took his fruit. By the time he made it home, the sun was dipping below the hills, and the streets were starting to clear. Buck began the walk up the two flights of stairs to his apartment. He passed his first floor neighbor, who was already settled into his nightly routine of sitting in front of the TV, watching Portuguese dubs of American family sitcoms. Then, there was the neighbor directly below him, a stunning Brazilian girl who might've been attainable if Buck was ten years younger. Finally, he came to his door. At first glance, it seemed no different than his neighbors’ -- until you found the thumbprint scanner hidden above the deadbolt.

Buck stepped inside the apartment, carelessly tossing his mail onto the table beside the door. He didn't turn on a light until he reached the kitchen. Once he had the day's prize squared away in a bowl on the counter, he picked the ripest fruit and carried it with him to the living room. He plopped down in his armchair and reached for the TV remote. Upon settling on a channel -- one showing a world news report -- Buck began peeling his tangerine. He had gotten no further than halfway through the rind when he felt the touch of cold steel to his throat from behind.

“Turn it off,” urged a quietly demanding voice from behind the armchair. To emphasize the point, the owner of the voice twisted the blade at Buck's throat, letting him feel the sharpened edge raking at his skin. Having no choice but to comply, Buck slowly raised the remote and turned off the television. He dropped it with a clatter, hoping perhaps to startle the intruder, but her grip held firm. If anything, she pressed the blade harder until Buck felt the trickle of blood running down his Adam's apple.

“You haven't reported in for a long time, Agent Richlen,” came a new voice from the shadows of the apartment. He saw a figure step forward, the scant light coming through the window showing a white star on a field of blue across the man's chest. “When we saw what happened to Director Fury and Abdul al-Rahman, we assumed the worst. It's good to see that you were able to escape unharmed,” Captain America said. “Perhaps you can tell us what happened in that interrogation room.”

Buck sneered. “If you're trying to intimidate me, save your breath. You might as well slit my throat and be done with it.”

“We're not here to kill you, Agent Richlen,” the Captain replied. “We didn't spend three months of our time tracking down a hired gun. SHIELD has plenty of agents already working on that. No, what we want are answers.” He took a step forward. His bright blue eyes cut through the darkness. “And one way or another, you're going to give them to us.”

“The kind of answers you want earned Nick Fury a bullet in the heart,” Buck warned with a sense of twisted pride. “You think they won't do the same to you?”

The Captain didn't blink. “We're counting on it, actually. But first, you're going to tell us how we can find them.”

That made Buck laugh. His laughing made him squirm, and his squirming twisted the sword against his throat, but he just smiled through the pain. “You must be getting senile, old man, because there's not a thing you can threaten me with that they wouldn't do ten times over if I betrayed them. So, like I said, just cut my throat and forget about all of this before you make an enemy you can't unmake.”

This time, it was Captain America's turn to smile. Somehow, that smile filled Buck's head with doubt. Why would he smile? “Maybe you're right, Richlen. Maybe we can't use fear to get to you,” he conceded, “but unlike your friends, fear isn't our only tactic.” He took a step back and nodded at someone behind Buck.

Diana Prince emerged from another shadowy corner of the room, holding a length of rope which seemed to shimmer in the twilight. Instinctively, Buck knew there was something unnatural about this rope. As she approached him with it, he tensed in the chair -- but Katana's grip and biting sword limited his resistance. Diana took Buck's hands and bound them. With the loose end of the rope, she stepped back to where Captain America stood. Buck's wrists felt warm where the lasso touched them. He looked up at Diana who asked, “Where can we find Hydra?”

A snarky comment came to mind, but Buck found himself unable to say it. He merely opened his mouth and felt silence come out. The bindings tightened around his wrists and grew warmer still. Buck felt an inkling, a compulsion to blurt out the true answer which danced at the back of his mind. He resisted this temptation and was rewarded with a sudden burning sensation at his wrists; it seemed to cut through his skin and get into his very soul, immolating him from the inside out. He knew without explanation that there was only one way to make it stop.

“Y-you… you can't,” Buck sputtered, a flop sweat breaking out beneath his hairline. His interrogators shared an uncertain look, so Buck -- feeling the burning coming back -- explained, “There is no ‘one’ Hydra. They work through proxies, intermediaries. They only get their own hands dirty when they absolutely have to.”

“But there has to be a network,” Captain America reasoned. “Lines of communication. Something that ties the organization together.”

Again, Buck felt the information being pried from him. Wincing, he said, “Anonymity is how they protect themselves. Only those at the top get the full picture. The rest of us… we mostly work independently. You get a handler to relay information, but outside of that…”

“Mostly?” Diana repeated. “You said you ‘mostly’ work alone?”

Buck began to grind his teeth. “Well, obviously, some missions are too big, have too many moving pieces… you've gotta work together sometimes, but they try to limit your exposure. They don't want too many agents knowing the identities of other agents,” he explained. The veins in his head and neck tightened as more information was called forward. “And, of course, you learn who the movers and shakers are… the folks you can count on to supply weapons, intel, any kind of logistical support; sometimes, they're Hydra, but other times they're just receptive to the cause.”

Just then, a high-tech drone came through the window. Buck's eyes tracked it as it drifted towards the Captain. As it came to a stop, a man's voice reported, “Captain, we've got movement on the street. Might wanna think about wrapping this up.” Buck closed his eyes and felt a wave of relief. He was starting to think that help would never arrive.

Captain America nodded at the sphere. “Copy that, Vic; hold position for now,” he ordered. Then, he turned his attention back to Buck. “It sounds like you're aware of at least some of the identities of other Hydra agents. Smart man like you, you wouldn't happen to have kept a record of that sort of thing, would you? Something to stash away for a rainy day, perhaps?”

Buck's eyes went wide. He summoned as much willpower as he could muster to resist the effects of Diana's lasso, but the amount of pain he suffered seemed to be proportional to his resistance. As Diana pulled the lasso tight, Buck let out a pained cry that could surely be heard clear across the favela. Slumping his head down in the chair, he whimpered, “B-bookshelf.”

The Captain and Diana's eyes both went to the bookshelf at the far end of the room. Handing the Captain the loose end of the rope, Diana wandered over in that direction, asking, “Where?”

There were noises coming through the window now. Voices, the sound of car doors opening and closing, the distant barking of dogs. The voice from the drone chirped in again, “I don't know what y'all just did, but we've gotta move. Now.”

“Where?” Diana repeated forcefully.

“War and Peace,” Buck answered.

The commotion outside was growing louder. Suddenly, there were footsteps coming up the stairs. Diana brushed a finger across the spines until she found the appropriate book. Flipping open the cover, she saw a shape beneath the binding, something that had been put there by someone. She slammed the book shut and returned to Captain America's side. Someone was banging on the door, shouting in Portuguese. Diana put a hand on the Captain's arm. “We have to go,” she urged.

Yet Captain America didn't move. His fingers tightened around the lasso as he furrowed his brow. The banging intensified. “Earlier,” the Captain began, “you said something about the ‘cause.’" More Portuguese yelling. “What cause is that, exactly? What is it that Hydra is hoping to accomplish?”

Buck raised his eyes. He was crying. “What have I done?” he said to himself. He looked at Captain America, but really, he was looking through him. “They'll kill me for this. They'll make me suffer.” He was inconsolable.

“Steve, we really have to go,” Diana insisted.

The Captain tightened his jaw. “What do they want, Richlen?”

Buck's eyes danced back and forth. The front door nearly broke off its hinges from the force of the banging, and Buck stared it down. “They'll kill me,” he said again. He met Captain America's gaze and made his move; with one swift motion, Buck grabbed Katana's blade with his bound hands and forced it into his own throat. With a gargle, the life spilled out of him and ran down the front of his shirt. All parties present were aghast. Buck's body fell limp, and the lasso slipped from his wrists.

The Avengers were given no chance to contemplate what had just happened. In the next moment, the door succumbed to the pounding and burst open. Men and boys armed with rifles rushed into the apartment. Captain America drew his shield, and Hoplite flashed her gauntlets. As Katana dived for cover, the room erupted in a hail of gunfire. Bullets plinked and deflected back at the attackers, and the shoddy walls were perforated with dozens of holes -- as was the body of the late Agent Richlen. “Get the book out of here! I'll hold them off!” the Captain shouted over the chaos. He took a labored step forward to cover his teammates’ escape through the window.

The cramped confines of Richlen's apartment afforded Captain America an opportunity. Diving behind the television set, he let his shield rip and watched as it angled off the walls, knocking down the first line of attackers. It returned to him not a moment too soon, as a stray bullet shattered the television above his head in a shower of sparks. Cap grasped the base of the entertainment center and hurled it in the direction of the door. It smacked into a gunman and sent him spiraling over the balcony railing. Cap used the distraction to get in close to the rest, snatching a rifle by the barrel with one hand as he drove the shield into another gangbanger's chest with the other. At close range, they didn't stand a chance against him.

Then, the whole building quaked. Captain America lost his grip on the gun and stumbled backwards. He regained his balance in time to see one of the drug runners standing atop the building across the street; the gangster leveled the rocket launcher on his shoulder as he lined up another shot. Cap knew this one wouldn't miss. Turning, he ran for the open window as bullets whizzed by. No sooner had he jumped than he heard the coming whistle. The Captain spun and braced his shield midair. The top floor of the apartment building exploded in a massive fireball, and the ensuing shockwave slammed into Cap's shield. The force of the explosion sent him crashing into the second floor of another building, right into a Brazilian family's living room.

“The whole damn favela’s been mobilized against us!” cursed Hawkeye into his earpiece. Cap could heard the sound of more gunfire behind his words.

“Bird's ready to fly, but I don't know how much longer we'll be able to secure the LZ,” reported Cyborg. “Cap, you coming?”

Captain America stirred, groaning as he rolled over the glass and debris that had followed him onto the carpet. His ears were ringing from the explosion, and he felt like he had just tried to stop a moving train. He pushed himself off his knuckles and onto his feet, albeit a bit haltingly. Shaking loose the cobwebs, he told his team, “Headed that way now.” He looked over to see the poor family whose apartment he had just trashed. Unfortunately, his Portuguese was shaky at best. “Eu... tenho desculpas pe-pela... bagunça?” It didn't seem to comfort them any. He shook his head. “Sorry,” he added before running out on them.

From the sounds of it, Barton's assessment hadn't been far off. As Cap sprinted down the corridor, he heard the kind of commotion usually reserved for active warzones. Clearly, Richlen had protection -- from the gangs, from Hydra, or both. Coming to the end of the hall, Captain America leapt shield-first through the window and landed one floor down on the street. The Avengers were engaged in an all-out firefight against every able-bodied male in the favela. In the distance, he saw the Quinjet hovering, its shields barely protecting it from the constant assault. Running down the street, Cap saw pickup trucks arriving with more men. “Sam, I could really use a ride,” he called out.

“Twenty seconds out,” Falcon replied.

The pickup trucks began unloading, and the reinforcements pointed in the Captain's direction as they yelled orders. “Need it to be more like ten,” Cap said as he urged himself on faster. The first wave of firing began, and Cap barely got his shield up in time. The new arrivals were positioned between him and his destination; he had no choice but to run through them. Barreling ahead with his shield, Captain America vaulted up onto the hood of a truck and springboarded himself into the air. He performed a forward somersault to keep his shield between him and the incoming bullets. “Sam?”

Just as gravity took hold and the Captain began falling back towards the men trying to kill him, he felt two hands catch him under his arms and pull him skyward. He looked up to see Falcon straining against his weight. “You know, this is a hell of a lot easier when it's Katana I'm carrying,” Falcon grunted. They climbed until they crested the rooftops, at which point Falcon let Cap go. The Captain hit the rooftop and rolled, springing back to his feet. Falcon raced ahead to meet the others at the landing zone as Cap followed.

With the grace and form of an Olympic hurdler, Captain America leaped over rooftops towards the besieged Quinjet. He could see Hawkeye standing on the landing ramp, peppering arrows into the converging gangs as Hoplite and Katana met the attackers head-on. Now re-entering the fray, Falcon made a series of passes, thinning the herd with devastating blasts from his twin semi-automatic pistols. The Avengers were winning the fight yet losing the battle. An RPG whistled through the night and connected with one of the Quinjet’s engines in a spectacular explosion.

“We take another hit like that, and we’ll lose the jet!” Cyborg reported urgently.

“Get her airborne!” Cap commanded. He was still a good hundred or so yards away. The Avengers began to pull back with Hawkeye providing suppressing fire. From the base of the ramp, Hoplite paused and looked back at the Captain. Still running, he waved her on. “Go, go!” The gangbangers, having followed her sightline, split their attention and began firing on Captain America. He ducked behind his shield and kept advancing. The Quinjet grew louder as its VTOL engines powered up. Seventy yards now.

Cap watched as the Quinjet rose from the rooftop. All of the militia’s attention was focused on him now, seeing him for an easier target. The bullets whizzed dangerously close around his shield. Fifty yards away… forty… The Quinjet’s landing ramp was still extended, waiting for him; an army stood between him and his goal. Thirty yards, he was gaining fast. A lobbed grenade was batted away with the shield. Twenty yards. The man with the RPG took aim. An explosion rocked the building beneath the Captain, and he felt his footing give way. He scrambled to push off of the collapsing rooftop, but was unable to find purchase. Captain America tumbled, the street racing up to meet him…

The Quinjet swooped between buildings, performing a midair roll that should’ve been impossible. The jet swung around to present the open landing ramp to the falling Captain; bracing himself, he dropped through the opening and slammed into the waiting arms of Hoplite and Hawkeye -- mere moments before the ramp closed behind him. In the same fluid motion, Cyborg torqued the Quinjet out of its dive and somehow got the nose pointing skyward. The Avengers were thrown back against their seats as the forward thrusters engaged. The men on the rooftops were left shaking their rifles impotently at the sky as the Americans escaped with their prize.
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