Eddie Brock — Roleplayer Guild

STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR
MEDITERRANEAN SEA

Waves crashed against the speedboat's prow as it darted towards the Moroccan coast. Steve Rogers sat in the passenger seat, adjusting his fingerless gloves and tightening his harness. While he was on his way to Spain to take this little ride across the Mediterranean, Director Hill did more digging. She discovered a suspicious irregularity in the Tangier port manifests: a small shipping vessel, the Diamondback, set sail from Naples with a reported two hundred and seventy-eight shipping containers in tow and arrived in Tangier with two hundred and seventy-nine. Later that night, surveillance cameras captured the image of Brock Rumlow. Hill, much like her predecessor, didn't believe in coincidences.

After a moment, Tangier appeared on the horizon, a smattering of white buildings dotting the gentle hills along the coast. In the heat of summer, the harbor might've been choked with boats, both commercial and recreational; as it was, there were few enough ships to allow Steve to scope out the port through his binoculars. Scanning the shipping yard with its cranes and containers, he sought out the Diamondback. He found it docked, its cargo already unloaded. He signaled the SHIELD agent piloting the speedboat, and they banked hard in that direction and made their approach. As they drew near enough to make out moving shapes along the yard, Steve said, “Alright, stop here.”

The agent raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure, sir? I can take you in closer,” he suggested.

Rogers lowered his helmet onto his head and buckled the chin strap. “Any closer, and they might see us,” he reasoned. He stood, sliding his shield behind his shoulders and into place in its magnetic harness. As the boat slowed to a stop, he stepped one foot onto the edge and took a breath. Launching off, he put his hands above his head and knifed into the water. The Mediterranean was cold this close to the Atlantic -- dark, too. Still, Captain America had yet to find a current that he couldn't conquer. Propelling himself forward with a dolphin kick, he surged beneath the waves towards the faraway dock. With endurance far surpassing any freestyle diver, the Captain reached the underside of the Diamondback in a single breath.

When the Captain came up for air, his breathing was slow and calm. Finding the hand holds along the Diamondback’s hull, he climbed up the side of the ship facing the harbor. He reached the top and pulled himself over, landing as quiet as a whisper. Not twenty feet to his right was one of Crossbones’ mercenaries, leaning over the railing and having a smoke. The man barely had time to turn his head before he caught a shield toss above the eyes. The force of the impact threatened to throw him overboard; in a single dash, Captain America closed the distance and caught him by the shirt collar. He pulled the unconscious merc back from the edge and set his body on the deck.

The Diamondback was manned by a skeleton crew. Spread out across the deck as they were, it was all too easy for Captain America to pick them off, leaving no one to sound an alarm. Finally reaching the ship's port side, the Captain peered over the railing at the shipping yard below; there, he saw more mercenaries ambling around with black crates. Even from up here, the white SHIELD eagle emblazoned on the side of each crate was clearly visible. The mercenaries were stacking the crates by an armored vehicle of some kind, while yet more of them set to the task of loading the truck's open bay. And there, at the center of it all, was Crossbones, wearing the same skull mask from the security footage in Rome.

“Strap it all down,” Crossbones barked, “Buyer isn't gonna pay us for damaged goods.”

Suddenly, the merc standing in the back of the truck caught a shield to the chest. He fell backwards, dropping the end of the crate he was holding. The shield nearly took the head off the man at the other end as it ricocheted back towards the Diamondback. Crossbones and his crew looked up to see a figure in a blue bodysuit mid-swan dive. Captain America held out a hand to catch the returning shield before contorting himself around for a three-point landing on the pier; the edge of his shield slammed against the concrete, letting out a reverberating metallic echo. From beneath the half-mask of his helmet, the Captain looked up to glare menacingly at the thieves.

The mercenaries fumbled with the carbines slung around their necks. Taking a step forward, Crossbones put a hand on the chest of the nearest man and shot him a glare. “Finish loading the truck. I'll handle this,” he growled; he lifted the merc's M4 by the sling and claimed it for himself. Striding towards the Captain, Crossbones pressed the rifle's release and visually inspected the magazine. Slamming it back into place, the mercenary leader pulled back the charging handle with a resounding click. He leaned into the carbine's extendable stock and began rattling off quick bursts. Captain America dove to the side, avoiding the shots. Crossbones continued to advance.

Rumlow was an imposing specimen; that much was already clear. Yet, as he continued to methodically bear down on the Captain, Rogers got his first real sense of the size of the man. Crossbones was built like a heavyweight and carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had known no physical equal. His skull mask afforded him a certain emotionless air, as though these wanton acts of violence had long lost their ability to raise his blood over a low simmer. There was a cold calculatedness to Crossbones’ every moment. He flicked the rifle's firing switch to full-auto and carved a path of bullets across the face of Cap's shield.

The firing stalled, and Captain America made his move. Crossbones had underestimated his speed, and so found himself still reaching for a fresh magazine when the Super-Soldier fell upon him. The Captain opened with a haymaker from his shield arm; the metal disc cracked as it scraped Rumlow's jaw. Captain America redirected his momentum into a spinning, jumping kick to Crossbones’ sternum. The mercenary's body armor absorbed much of the blow, but he fell back on his heels all the same. The Captain went for a backhand shield smash when Crossbones surprised him. Rumlow ducked the attack and caught Cap on the chin with the blunt end of his rifle.

There was little time to recover. Rumlow quick-changed the magazines and brought his weapon to bear. Captain America raised his shield in time to collect the incoming shots like a lethal hailstorm; the shield wobbled on its straps from the sheer proximity. This time, it was Crossbones delivering a standing kick to the shield's center that sent an opponent reeling. The Captain would've landed on his back save for catching himself with his free hand. Somehow, he managed to keep the shield between himself and Crossbones. His ears were ringing from the constant ping of bullets on vibranium, but he merely grit his teeth and endured.

From his crouched position, Captain America sprang up and drove the heart of his shield into Crossbones’ chest. The hit jarred the mercenary's rifle loose. Cap slammed the edge of his shield into Rumlow's wrist; Crossbones dropped the gun with a clatter. Pushing Rumlow off, the Captain kicked the rifle well out of reach. He attempted to seize the opening that followed, but the mercenary -- though disarmed -- was no less dangerous. After blocking the Captain's next swing, Crossbones countered with a headbutt hard enough to leave Captain America tasting blood. As Cap reeled, Crossbones drew a Desert Eagle from his belt. He snapped off a shot that missed the Captain's head by inches.

Several shots followed; only a series of acrobatic spins and dodges from Captain America kept him from getting hit. Meanwhile, the others mercs -- having finished loading the rest of the crates -- fired up the armored truck's engine. Glancing over his shoulder, Crossbones turned back to Cap and said, “I'd love to stay, but duty calls. You understand.” As he retreated, he emptied the rest of his clip to keep the Captain at bay. He climbed up into the truck as Captain America raced to stop them in time. Crossbones spun and lobbed something in Rogers’ direction. “Something to remember me by.”

Captain America barely had time to react. As the grenade tumbled through the air towards him, he could do little more than raise his shield and brace for impact. The explosion ballooned around the large, metal disc, making the air hot. The Captain was thrown off his feet by the force of the blast, careening into the side of a nearby shipping container. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. The armored car began to pull away, and Captain America heard a buzzing in his ear. “Rogers, status update. Have you secured the weapons?”

Clamoring to his feet, the Captain grimaced. “Working on it,” he reported as he shook off the effects of the blast. He began to sprint, needing to make up for lost ground. Luckily, the truck was slow to accelerate, and at his top speed, Captain America had no trouble catching up. Closing the gap, he leapt, grabbing hold of the handle on one of the truck's rear doors. Cap started to pull himself up when the other door flung open, revealing Crossbones. The mercenary kicked down at the Captain, nearly knocking him off. As Rogers held on for dear life, Crossbones again drew his pistol.

Captain America jabbed his shield into Crossbones’ calf, disrupting his aim at the last moment. The truck then banked hard into a turn, and both men were jostled. As Crossbones caught himself against the door, Cap found himself thrown around the passenger side. He slammed hard into the side of the truck and nearly lost his grip. Cap scrambled for a handhold as a mercenary appeared through the passenger window. The man leveled a carbine at the Captain; Rogers swung and pinned the weapon between the truck and his shield. Extending his body, Captain America managed to land a halfway decent kick into the merc's chest.

The truck smashed through a chainlink fence, leaving the shipping yard behind as it barreled towards the city proper. At last, the Captain found himself unable to hang on. As the armored car veered into the flow of traffic, Captain America flew off and landed hard on an unsuspecting motorist's windshield. He watched as the truck rammed through everything in its path, including other cars. They had to be stopped. Climbing out of the splintered glass, the Captain spotted a motorcyclist stuck in traffic. Running up to the man, Cap grabbed the handlebars and said, “I need to borrow your bike.” The man shouted back in Arabic, obviously not understanding, but there was no time for a debate. Cap swung the bike out from under him and mounted it.

The armored car was easy to follow by the path of destruction it paved. As the Captain began to catch up, the truck turned sharply down a side road. Cap made the turn on his motorcycle with ease. The streets were narrower here than on the city's edge. The truck bowled through signs and facades for the storefronts lining the street, creating a steady stream of debris for Cap to weave around. More than once, a bystander nearly found themselves flattened by the behemoth tearing through their city. Captain America opened the throttle, wanting to get close and end this. As he drew near, Crossbones spotted him through the swinging backdoor and rose with a rifle in hand.

Captain America grabbed his shield and positioned it between his handlebars. He kept his head down and steered right into Rumlow's firing line. The bullets cascaded off the shield like heavy raindrops. Easily outpacing the hulking car, Cap and his motorcycle continued to close the gap. He was less than a full car length away when the truck again changed direction, taking the majority of a street corner with it. The combination of the suddenness of the turn and the mortar spilling out onto the street left Cap unable to follow directly; instead, he veered down an adjacent street, one running diagonal to theirs.

At the top of the street, Captain America found himself racing towards a bazaar. The colorful tents were upon him before he could think to stop. Using every ounce of his Super-Soldier reflexes, the Captain yanked on the handlebars to squeeze through the unaware pedestrians. A cry went out, and the Moroccans dove for cover. The street began to clear, and Captain America seized the new path -- until a delivery truck began to pull out in front of him. Slamming the emergency brake, Cap spun the bike around ninety degrees and dropped it to its side; skidding beneath the chassis of the truck -- keeping his shield between himself and the ground -- Captain America popped up on the other side and torqued the motorcycle back around to continue giving chase.

The divergence between the streets was widening, and the Captain knew he needed to get back on Crossbones’ tail. Spotting an alleyway ahead that would put him back on the proper road, Captain America swung the motorcycle around into the gap. He suddenly found himself facing a stone stairwell between buildings. Easing on the brake, Cap guided the bouncing motorcycle down the stairs until it emerged on the adjacent street. The armored car was a little ways ahead but still well within pursuit range. Captain America throttled up for a final approach.

This time, Crossbones was waiting. Seeing Captain America approach, he stood at the back of the car with an even larger rifle; this one had a front-mounted grenade launcher beneath its barrel. Pumping the launcher, Crossbones turned and fired, the explosion missing Rogers’ bike by at least two or three feet. A second shot missed high, causing the Captain to swerve underneath it. The third one was on target, but Captain America caught it harmlessly on his shield. The gap was shrinking. The Captain grabbed his shield and let it rip. As it crashed into Crossbones’ gut, the mercenary got off a fourth shot.

Had it not been for the shield throw, the grenade might've caught Captain America in the chest. Instead, the small redirection pushed it low. The explosion was centered between the motorcycle's front tire and the ground. Captain America was thrown from the wreckage of his bike. His shield -- caught up in the shockwave -- deflected high and wide, landing somewhere down the street. Rogers tumbled through a plate glass window into a storefront. His every muscle ached, and he could feel minor lacerations from the shrapnel and the broken glass. By the time he forced himself up onto his feet, the armored car was long gone.

Captain America stood in the quiet Moroccan street, surveying the trail of destruction and mayhem that Crossbones and his men had left behind. Activating the communicator in his helmet, he gave his solemn report. “Hill, Rumlow got away. I repeat, I did not secure the package.” He removed his helmet and swore beneath his breath.
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