𝑾𝑰𝑪𝑲𝑬𝑫 𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑴𝑺 ━━ 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜

17 Small Pocket of Peace

THE ELEVATOR DOOR creaked open, revealing a hidden room filled with old, massive computers. The air was thick with dust, and the hum of ancient machinery echoed softly, adding an eerie ambiance to the room. Rows of outdated monitors and bulky processors lined the walls, their once cutting-edge technology now relics of a bygone era. The soft glow of small indicator lights flickered sporadically, casting an otherworldly light on the trio.

"This must be it," Steve said, stepping inside with cautious curiosity.

"Initiate system?" Natasha read aloud from the dusty terminal screen, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence.

She began typing on the keyboard, her fingers moving deftly over the yellowed keys. "Y-E-S, spells yes." Natasha smiled as the old computer started to crank up, the mechanical whirring growing louder. Kalum couldn't help but sport a goofy smile, knowing exactly what she was thinking.

"'Shall we play a game?'" They said in unison, chuckling at the shared reference.

Kalum turned to Steve. "It's from a movie that—"

"Yeah, I saw it," Steve was quick to respond, his tone a mix of impatience and amusement. Kalum closed his mouth, a smirk tugging at his lips as Natasha rolled her eyes.

Suddenly, an accented voice echoed through the room, mechanical and devoid of emotion. "Rogers, Steven. Born, 1918. Romanoff, Natalia Alianovna. Born, 1984. Horusson, Karim. Born, unregistered." They saw an old camera above them move, its lens whirring as it focused and analyzed them.

Kalum snorted, breaking the tension. "Unregistered? That's just fancy talk for 'I don't know my own birthday.'"

Natasha stifled a laugh while Steve shook his head, trying to stay focused on the task at hand. "Stay sharp."

The screen flickered, displaying lines of code that began to stream across the monitors. The ancient machinery groaned and whirred, as if waking from a long slumber. Dust particles danced in the beams of light emitted by the screens, adding to the surreal atmosphere. Their reactions were a mix of awe and anticipation. Steve's eyes narrowed with resolve, his mind racing with thoughts of what secrets might be buried within these walls. Natasha's fingers continued to fly over the keyboard, her expression one of intense concentration. Kalum, ever the joker, maintained a light-hearted demeanor but couldn't hide the spark of curiosity in his eyes.

"It's some kind of recording," Natasha theorized, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the screen.

"I am not a recording, Fräulein. I may not be the man I was when the Captain took me prisoner in 1945, but I am," the voice intoned. The computer screen flickered, showing an old photograph of Dr. Arnim Zola, his face eerily serene despite the grainy image.

Kalum vaguely remembered seeing a photo of Dr. Zola in one of SHIELD's archives. "Friend of yours, Cap?" he asked, glancing at Steve.

Steve's expression hardened. "Arnim Zola was a German scientist who worked for the Red Skull. He's been dead for years."

"First correction," Zola's voice interjected, with a tone of cold amusement. "I am Swiss. Second, look around you. I have never been more alive. In 1972, I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body, my mind, however, that was worth saving on two hundred thousand feet of data banks. You are standing in my brain."

The trio looked around the room, the reality of Zola's words sinking in. The walls, lined with old, humming machinery and blinking lights, were more than just relics; they were the living embodiment of Zola's consciousness.