Who the hell am I (english version)

Arnim Zola

Throughout the descent, I struggle in vain to control my racing heart, repeatedly wiping my sweaty hands on my pants. Call me claustrophobic, but riding in this old crate so far underground is definitely not my thing. The light in the elevator flickers intermittently, and I fear it will go out, the elevator will stop, and we'll be trapped in the darkness. A cold shiver runs down my spine at the thought, and I almost want to slap myself for imagining the worst in situations like this. However, the expressions on Steve's and Nat's faces clearly show that they, too, are far from thrilled about being in this elevator.

It feels like an eternity before we finally come to a stop, and I hold my breath as the doors creak open slowly. I'm immediately hit by a musty odor, which makes me scrunch up my nose. It's clear that no one has been down here for decades. The room before us is shrouded in complete darkness, with only the flickering light of the elevator providing any illumination. My heart is still racing, and I can feel the sweat clinging to my palms. Great, this is off to a wonderful start. "Well, this is... inviting," Nat says sardonically as she pulls out her phone and turns on the flashlight. I do the same and we exit the elevator with slow, cautious steps. Steve takes a step forward and casts a scrutinizing glance into the room. "It's not worse than some of the places we've seen," he says calmly, though I can tell he's not exactly thrilled either. "Speak for yourself," I mutter, trying to reign in my nervous thoughts.

As we move further into the room, the old ceiling lights flicker on. Immediately, Nat and I draw our weapons and scan the now-illuminated room, but there's no one in sight. We exchange glances, nod briefly, and continue our exploration. I keep my weapon ready; better safe than sorry. The bare concrete walls exude a coldness that seeps through my jacket. It's almost as if the air down here is heavier, denser—a stifling silence pervades the place. In the center of the room stands a monstrous console that looks as though it's from a long-forgotten era. The screens are old and bulky; it's a miracle if they still work. "This can't be the data source; this tech is ancient," Nat says as she examines the computers. Countless tube monitors and machines are stacked like a wall around us, connected by thick cables that snake across the floor, making us watch our step. The hum of the old electronics fills the air—a steady, low tone that gives me goosebumps. On the walls, old metal plaques with faded logos hang, and I can just barely make out the Hydra symbol. Why would the Hydra logo be in a former S.H.I.E.L.D. facility? The others have seen the logo too, and I look at them with wide, shocked eyes. Steve is as pale as a ghost, and it hits me that the scale of this situation might be even bigger than we thought.

Hydra—the name gives me a queasy feeling in my stomach. The organization was known for its ruthlessness, cruelty, and fanatical ideology. Originally conceived as a scientific division of the Third Reich, it soon evolved into an independent power with the aim of subjugating the world and establishing a new world order led by people who knew no mercy. Steve and the others stopped them, but their traces are still felt today. Sometimes I wonder how deep their machinations really ran, but since S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded, Hydra was officially history, even though I've been noticing more and more similarities in the last 24 hours. But that's impossible. Hydra was destroyed, and S.H.I.E.L.D. is supposed to protect people.

I feel increasingly uneasy and can barely suppress the shivers running through my body. Slowly, I make my way to the computer in the center of the room and examine it closely. "Nat, please pass me the stick," I ask, and she retrieves it from her pocket. "Well, if you ask so nicely," she says, handing it over with a smile. At least one of us is still in good spirits. I plug it into one of the ports, and... nothing happens. I suspected that this old thing might not work anymore, but I'm still a bit disappointed. I'm about to sigh and tell the others that we're stuck when the screens suddenly flicker on. Fans begin to whir, and a camera moves toward us. Instinctively, I take a step back and look straight into the lens. It looks so old that it might belong in a museum rather than here. "I don't trust this at all," I murmur, staring skeptically at the screen. A robotic voice drones through the speakers. "System initialization?" We exchange skeptical glances before I cautiously type "Yes" on the keyboard.