The Wind Carries No Prayers #43

The wind howled through the desolate expanse, sweeping across the frozen landscape in biting gusts. The sky overhead was a dull, oppressive gray, heavy with the promise of another snowfall. Nathan trudged up a lonely hill, his boots crunching against the ice-crusted ground, the half-destroyed helmet of Brock Rumlow clutched loosely in his left hand.

At the top, he came to a stop before a massive boulder, its surface worn smooth by time and weather. He turned his gaze across the vast, empty tundra. No graves, no markers—just ice, rock, and the whisper of the wind. It felt right.

Nathan muttered under his breath, "This looks as good a place as any…"

He knelt down and placed the scorched and battered helmet at the boulder's base. It was cracked, its once-menacing skull-like visage split nearly in half, charred and dented from their brutal battle.

He reached for a few scattered stones, carefully arranging them around the helmet to keep it anchored in the snow. The act was almost ritualistic, his movements slow and deliberate.

Once satisfied, he straightened and lifted his Vibranium arm. The index finger shifted, nanites flowing seamlessly as the digit sharpened into a pointed spike. He hovered it over the boulder for a moment, considering the words.

Then, with steady precision, he began to carve into the stone.

In memory of Brock Rumlow.

The letters were clean, sharp—permanent.

He was not the most benevolent nor the most kind.

Nathan exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air.

He was not the wisest nor the most patient.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. That was an understatement.

He was a soldier of fortune, and a damn good one.

His Vibranium finger moved smoothly, carving deep into the rock.

May he find more peace in death than he found in life.

Nathan stepped back, reading over the words. They were honest. No embellishments. No lies. Rumlow had been a bastard, a killer, and a mercenary to his core—but he'd been good at what he did.

Lowering his hand, he focused once more, and the tip of his index finger reshaped, shifting into a broader, chisel-like form. With careful precision, he etched the final mark beneath the epitaph: two crossed bones, the symbol of Crossbones himself.

Stepping back, he let out a breath, staring at the rough but unmistakable emblem. A long silence stretched out, the only sounds the distant howl of the wind and the faint shifting of ice.

"Guess this is as close as you're gonna get to a proper send-off, you sick son of a bitch..." Nathan muttered.

There were no prayers, no final words beyond what was written in the stone. Rumlow would have scoffed at anything more. He'd probably scoff at even this.

Nathan lingered for a moment longer, hands in his pockets, staring at the crude gravestone. The wind whistled through the empty expanse, carrying with it a chill that cut through even his insulated jacket. He took a slow breath, then exhaled, watching the faint cloud of condensation dissipate.

It was time to go.

Just as he turned to leave, the sound of footsteps crunching against the snow reached his ears. His head tilted slightly before he glanced over his shoulder. A group was approaching from the distance, their silhouettes growing sharper against the white backdrop—Rick Mason leading the way, flanked by several of his Maximus Security men.

They moved with practiced coordination, their hands near their weapons, ever watchful even in the open tundra.

A little farther behind them, Steve Rogers walked with his usual steady, unhurried stride, his breath misting in the frigid air. And trailing at the very back, bundled up awkwardly against the cold, was Elihas Starr, rubbing his gloved hands together with an expression of thinly veiled irritation.

Nathan smirked at the sight and called out, "You got here quicker than I thought."

Rick shrugged as he came to a stop a few feet away. "Not like I had anything better to do." His gaze flicked past Nathan, landing on the helmet and the engraved rock. His brow furrowed slightly. "What's this now?"

Nathan didn't answer as Rick stepped closer, scanning the words etched into the stone. His expression shifted—curious at first, then something more unreadable.

Finally, he turned back to Nathan with a raised brow. "Didn't know you and Crossbones were such buddies."

Nathan let out a dry scoff, lifting his Vibranium arm and flexing the fingers. The metal gleamed under the pale light. "Hell no," he said flatly. "The bastard took my arm. I'd give his carcass a hard kick if I got the chance."

Rick nodded, satisfied with that answer, but then Nathan's gaze drifted back to the gravestone, and his expression changed. A flicker of something less sharp, more introspective.

"…Then again," he muttered, almost to himself, "we had a lot in common. One wrong move, and I could've ended up like him. Maybe worse."

The words hung in the cold air.

Rick paused, his usual easygoing demeanor faltering as a thought crossed his mind—Nathan, not as he was now, but as something else. A version of him without restraint, without a moral line to toe. A version of him who had gone full mercenary, untethered, ruthless.

A chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran down his spine.

"Yeah…" Rick muttered, shaking his head. "That's one thought I could've done without for the rest of my life."

Before Nathan could reply to Rick, a deliberate throat-clearing cut through the cold air, the kind meant to announce a presence rather than clear congestion.

Nathan turned toward the sound, a smirk already forming. "There you are, Cap," he said, folding his arms. "I was wondering when you'd show up again." He shook his head with an amused chuckle. "Never in my wildest dreams did I think it'd be here and now, though."

Steve Rogers met Nathan's gaze with that same composed expression he always wore, though there was something weighted behind his eyes. He let out a slow breath, his exhale visible in the frigid air.

"Well, son," Steve said, his voice measured, "you went through an ordeal because of SHIELD's negligence. I figured a personal apology was the least I could offer."

Nathan chuckled dryly. "Oh, it's definitely the least you can do. But it's not enough." His tone wasn't bitter, just matter-of-fact. He gestured toward Elihas Starr, who was lingering a few steps behind the others, hands buried deep in his coat pockets.

"You owe me another favor," Nathan continued. "And lucky for you, I happen to have just the thing in mind." He jabbed a thumb toward Starr. "My new friend here is a wanted man—black-market smuggling, illicit tech deals, the whole nine yards. I want him exonerated. Name cleared. Fresh start. The whole shebang."

Starr, to his credit, didn't interject. He merely alternated his gaze between Nathan and Steve, gauging the exchange with the wary patience of a man who knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Steve's jaw tightened slightly, and he took a moment to think before responding. "I can't do that," he admitted, voice even. "But I know someone who can." His eyes met Nathan's.

"I'll get Fury to pull the strings, but if I do this, you'll be taking full responsibility." He glanced briefly at Starr before looking back at Nathan. "If he screws up again, it's on your head, too."

Nathan turned his head slightly toward Starr, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I'm sure he's learned his lesson."

Starr scoffed lightly but said nothing, his expression unreadable.

Nathan turned back to Steve, his easy smirk fading into something sharper. "Now then, why don't we cut to the chase? Why are you really here, Cap?"

Steve nodded, his stance firm as ever. "I do have something to discuss, but let's talk on the way back to the plane. I need to be in New York as soon as possible."

Nathan raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. There was no point—Steve was the type who wouldn't waste words unless the matter was urgent.

"Alright," Nathan said, adjusting his coat before turning toward the path leading back to the HYDRA facility. "Walk and talk."

Steve fell into step beside him, his boots crunching over the snow, while the rest of the group trailed behind at a slight distance. The wind had picked up slightly, swirling around them, but Steve barely seemed to notice.

"We found Bucky," he began after a moment, his tone measured. "Exactly where you told us he'd be."

Nathan glanced at him sideways, waiting for the inevitable but.

Steve hesitated, then exhaled.

"The problem is—"

"HYDRA fucked with his head," Nathan interjected. "And you have no idea how to bring him back."

Steve sighed. "That's the gist of it." His jaw tightened. "I was hoping you'd know something—or someone—who can help."

Nathan stuffed his hands in his pockets, considering for a beat before shrugging. "I do. Charles Xavier."

Steve frowned slightly. "Xavier?"

"Professor Charles Xavier," Nathan clarified. "An expert on the human mind and the most powerful telepath on the planet."

Steve's expression darkened with recognition. "I've heard of him. Fury mentioned him once—said he leads the X-Men. A group of mutant vigilantes." He paused, glancing over at Nathan. "From what I gathered, SHIELD and the X-Men weren't exactly on the best of terms."

Nathan chuckled. "Xavier and his people don't get along with most government agencies, and for good reason. But I think he might be persuaded to help."

Steve looked skeptical. "And what's the catch?"

"You just have to show him a bit of goodwill," Nathan said, smirking. "A little trust goes a long way."

...

Three Days Later – Nathan's Safe House, New York

The dim glow of the television flickered across the room, casting shifting shadows on the walls. Nathan sat on the worn-out couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, his vibranium fingers idly drumming against the armrest. A half-empty beer bottle rested on the floor beside him, condensation trailing down the glass.

Rick sat on the opposite end, one arm slung over the back of the couch, eyes fixed on the screen. The safe house wasn't anything extravagant—just a modest, sparsely furnished apartment tucked away in a quiet part of the city. A place to disappear when necessary.

On the television, the sleek logo of "The Fact Channel with Trish Tilby" spun into view before cutting to a shot of the studio. The camera panned to the guest of the night—Steve Rogers.

Dressed in civilian attire, Steve sat with his usual upright posture, an air of quiet authority radiating from him. His expression was calm, but there was steel behind his eyes. Trish Tilby, the well-known journalist and media personality, sat across from him, a composed but slightly wary look on her face.

"Captain Rogers," she began, "you've been an outspoken advocate for mutants as of late. Some might say it's an unusual stance, given the complexities of the issue. Why take such a strong position now?"

Steve leaned forward slightly, his voice steady. "Because it's the right thing to do." He let the words settle for a moment before continuing. "For years, people have called me a hero. They celebrate me for putting my life on the line, for using my abilities to help others. And yet, when a mutant does the same thing—when they risk everything to save lives—they're treated with suspicion, fear, even outright hatred." He shook his head. "That's not justice. That's hypocrisy."

Nathan smirked, taking a sip of his drink. "Damn, he's really going for it."

Rick let out a low whistle. "Ballsy move, calling out half the country on live TV."

Tilby folded her hands in front of her. "But Captain Rogers, fear and prejudice don't simply stem from differences alone. There are deeper concerns at play. Some historians have drawn comparisons between mutants and the evolution of Homo sapiens over Neanderthals. Modern humans didn't just coexist with them—we wiped them out."

She glanced at Steve, measured. "Isn't it possible that this is simply history repeating itself? That people fear mutants because, on some level, they recognize what could happen? That this isn't just about discrimination, but about survival?"

Nathan exhaled through his nose. "Ah. Here we go."

Steve's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second, then he shook his head. "No." His tone was firm. "We aren't living in prehistoric times. This isn't about one species replacing another. This is about how we choose to act in the world we live in now."

He gestured slightly with one hand. "I've seen mutants who could level cities with a thought, mutants powerful enough to reshape the world if they wanted to. And you know what they do instead?" He looked directly into the camera. "They fight. They bleed. They give everything they have to protect people who hate them. Because they believe life—all life—is worth saving."

Tilby shifted slightly in her chair. "But—"

"If they wanted to wipe humanity out, they would have done it already," Steve cut in. His voice was calm, but it carried undeniable weight. "The fact that they haven't—that many of them still fight to protect people who fear them—tells me everything I need to know about their character."

Rick let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Damn. He's good."

Nathan took another sip of his drink. "He's right."

On the screen, Steve continued. "This earth doesn't belong to one kind of people. It never has. And yeah, we don't have to all like each other. We don't have to agree on everything. But if we don't learn to coexist, if we keep pushing each other to the edge, then one day, we're all gonna wake up and realize we destroyed ourselves."

Tilby hesitated, her professional composure barely masking her contemplation. She glanced down at her notes before finally asking, "And what would you say to those who still believe mutants are a threat?"

Steve didn't hesitate. "I'd say fear doesn't justify hatred. And if history teaches us anything, it's that fear left unchecked only leads to disaster."

Nathan smirked. "Well, there you have it."

Rick leaned back, arms crossed. "Think anyone's actually gonna listen?"

Nathan sighed, swirling the beer bottle in his hand. "Some will. Most won't. But at least someone's saying it."

On the screen, the audience erupted into applause as Steve sat back in his chair, unwavering.

Rick let out a low whistle as he clicked off the television, tossing the remote onto the couch beside him. "Still can't believe you convinced Captain America to do that," he muttered, shaking his head. "Fury's probably having an aneurysm right about now."

Nathan, sprawled across the worn leather armchair, simply shrugged. "He'll have to get over it."

Rick scoffed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, sure. Because Nicholas J. Fury is real good at letting things go." His tone was dry, but then his expression shifted—more serious now, studying Nathan like he was trying to gauge something unspoken. "Anyway… you said you wanted to take a break. Which, by the way, never happens, so I just let you be. But I gotta ask, Nate—" His eyes locked onto him, sharp, measuring. "What do you intend to do now?"

Nathan exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face before letting it drop onto the armrest. He stared at the blank TV screen for a second before answering.

"First, I'll head to Xavier's school," he said, voice calm, deliberate. "Make good on my end of the bargain. Connect Rogers to the Professor, get Barnes the help he needs." He rolled his head slightly, cracking his neck. "Then I'll check on my so-called students over there… see if they've been skipping training while I was away."

Rick nodded along, lips pursed. "And then?"

Nathan didn't answer right away. Instead, he raised his prosthetic arm, flexing the Vibranium fingers, watching the way the nanites shifted beneath the surface—fluid, seamless, deadly. Then he clenched it into a fist, the metal plating locking into place with a faint whirr.

He smiled—cold, sharp. "Then," he said, voice low and full of promise, "I'll make HYDRA bleed."

...

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