225. The Weight of Yesterday. (Patreon)

Captain Steve Rogers POV:

The Sahara-class Prowler cut through the sky like a blade through silk.

Even at high altitude, even at near-silent propulsion, I could feel the tension in the cockpit. It wasn’t in the machine, it was in the people sitting behind me.

I kept my hands steady on the controls, eyes scanning the horizon, instruments flickering softly in front of me. Years of war had taught me something simple, you can always tell when soldiers aren’t present.

And right now? This wasn’t a team of soldiers. This was a room full of ghosts.

Behind me, no one spoke.

Natasha sat slightly hunched, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with her seatbelt like she was trying to anchor herself to something real.

Yelena Belova stared at nothing in particular, her usual sharpness dulled into something… quieter.

Clint Barton checked his new Hardlight Accelerator Bow not because it needed checking but because his hands needed something to do.

And Peter?

Peter sat forward, working on a console with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

“Mind sharing what’s happening here?” I asked finally, not turning around.

“You know…” she muttered, voice distant, “just remembering another tally on the ledger.”

“Ah yes,” Peter said calmly, fingers still moving across holographic controls. “It was stupid of me to reveal who she was. Should’ve waited.”

Natasha glanced at him.

“Now or later,” she asked quietly, “would it have mattered?”

Peter paused for a fraction of a second then resumed.

“No,” he admitted. “It wouldn’t have.”

I tightened my grip on the controls. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

There was a long pause then Natasha spoke.

“I needed out of the Red Room, Cap. I tried to kill Dreykov in Budapest. I wasn’t subtle about it. Not even close.”

A bitter chuckle. “S.H.I.E.L.D sent Clint to kill me. But he didn’t take the shot,” Natasha continued. “Instead, he gave me a choice.”

She finally looked at him.

“And convinced Fury I could be an asset.”

Clint shrugged slightly, still focused on his bow. “You looked like someone worth saving.”

Natasha smiled. “That’s one way to put it.” Then her expression darkened. “Fury gave us resources. I tracked down Dreykov’s daughter Antonia and used her to find him.”

Her hands tightened around the seatbelt. “And I detonated a bomb.”

The cockpit felt smaller.

“We hid for two days,” she continued softly. “In the vents of Budapest station. Cold, hungry. Listening for footsteps. I thought that was it. I thought I ended it.”

Her voice cracked.

“But now?” she whispered. “He’s alive and his daughter… she’s…”

She couldn’t finish. Yelena did it for her.

“After you escaped,” she said in a tone just… stating fact, “Dreykov made sure no one else could.”

Her gaze stayed forward.

“During deployments and extractions, we were drugged before and after missions. No memory henceforth no chance of escape.”

Peter spoke. “Do you know what my problem is?”

Yelena frowned slightly. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Peter leaned back slightly. “I know too much.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“I’ve seen other realities,” he continued. “Watched them. Studied them. There’s one designated Earth-199999.”

I frowned slightly, Peter didn’t notice.

“In that world,” he continued, “Natasha sacrifices herself. Stops Clint from doing it.”

The air shifted.

“A broken Yelena,” he said absentmindedly, “asks why people revere the name ‘Avenger.’ ”

He looked at Clint. “At Hawkeye’s successor.”

Yelena blinked. “What did they say?”

“It’s not about being gods,” Peter said. “It’s about what they gave up. The name Avenger doesn’t carry weight because of power. It carries weight because of sacrifice.”

“I’ve seen dozens of versions of you,” Peter continued, his tone almost detached.

He glanced at Yelena. “One where you willingly joined the Red Room.”

He looked at Natasha. “One where you never left.”

Then at me. “One where you and Nat are married.”

I blinked. “What?”

Peter ignored me.

“I’ve seen a version where she’s African. Versions where I’m a Spider-monster. Versions where Gwen dies. Versions where I die.”

His voice grew quieter.

“I’ve seen my own tombstones. I’ve seen realities where May Parker becomes Spider-Woman. Where there’s a Captain Hydra. Where everything goes wrong in ways you can’t even imagine.”

“You’re insane.” Yelena muttered.

Peter smiled. “Maybe.”

Then his expression hardened. “But every version teaches the same lesson.”

He leaned forward.

“If yesterday holds back today… then you won’t be able to save tomorrow.”

I exhaled slowly. “Peter’s right,” I said finally. “You can’t change what’s behind you.”

I glanced back at Natasha and Yelena. “But you can decide what you do with it.”

Yelena snorted lightly, wiping at her eyes.

“We’re talking about murder tallies,” she said, “and he drops multiversal philosophy.”

She gave Peter a look. “You’re crazy, Parker.” She says again.

Peter just smiled and Yelena raised two fingers in a sloppy salute. “Oorah, Cap.”

I shook my head. “That’s USMC. I’m Army. It’s Hoorah.”

“Close enough.”

The system chimed. “Approaching Seventh Circle Maximum Security Detention Facility in ten minutes.”

Yelena leaned forward suddenly. “Wanna do something crazy?”

Peter shrugged. “Define crazy.”

Her grin sharpened. “Oh, you’ll love it.”

Alexei Alexei Shostakov POV:

The buzzing of tattoo machines filled the air like a swarm of flies while the prison cafeteria smelled like sweat, metal, and regret.

And me?

I was thriving.

“There I was,” I declared loudly, gripping my opponent’s hand in an arm-wrestling match, “in Cuba! Fighting Captain America himself!”

The table leaned in. They always did when they heard the stories.

“I grabbed his shield yes, that shield and threw it away!” I continued, slamming my opponent’s hand down. “He dives after it like it’s his child, and bam! I punched him straight through a window!”

“When did this happen?” Someone asked.

I waved casually. “Eh, 1987. 1988.”

“I thought Captain America was frozen back then.”

The laughter died and I turned, annoyed. “Who said that?”

And then, I saw him.

The room had gone silent long ago and I hadn’t noticed. But now? Now I understand why.

He stood there. In the doorway. Wearing his iconic Red, white and blue uniform complete with the star and the shield.

Steve Rogers stood in front of my bench.

My legs felt weak.

I quickly fixed my hair with my hands, wiped my palms on my jumpsuit, forcing a smile as I approached.

“Captain America!” I said, voice just a little too eager. “I am a huge fan of your work.”

I extended my hand.

“I hope you don’t mind my little stories. Prison life, you understand, here morale is important.”

He didn’t take my hand. Instead he looked at me and in that gaze, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years.

Judgment and disappointment which was worse than anger or hatred.

“This is a prison for political dissidents,” he said, voice carrying effortlessly across the room.

“Effective yesterday, the Russian Federation has been dissolved. Its nuclear arsenal is seized.”

“All of you will be reviewed,” he continued. “Reprocessed and revaluated.”

A pause.

“But today…” He stepped back. “The gates will open for ten minutes.”

The doors hissed, then unlocked. “Good luck.”

And then, he was gone in a flash of blue light.

The room exploded into chaos. Desperate people who actually committed crimes shouted, pushed and ran.

And me? I ran too.

Because for all my stories, my boasts and my lies I knew the truth.

My ledger… was red not with the blood of my enemies but with the death of children.

I wasn’t running toward glory. I was running away from judgment.