13 months ago

The grandfather clock struck two p.m., its chimes echoing through the empty house, a cruel reminder of time slipping away in her solitude. She sighed, itching all over her scalp. Somehow, this time the bells managed to coax her out of bed. She dragged her blankets back, sweeping her bare feet onto the wintry wooden floor. She slumped forward on the edge of the bed.

The clock bellowed again, attacking her with the fact that three p.m. arrived. She sauntered down the stairs, not bothering to flick the kitchen lights on. With absolute gall, sunlight streamed through the closed curtains enough anyway.

With a heavy sigh, she grasped the lone, chipped mug resting in the sink, its surface still stained with the remnants of yesterday's coffee. She didn't bother to rinse it.

She tugged the fridge door open, blinded by the bulb inside. Grimacing, she grabbed the milk container and gave it a quick whiff. Unbothered by the odor emanating from the jug, she poured a splash in the dirty mug.

The sound of the coffeemaker warming up almost drowned out the screech and halting crash.

Almost.

She wrapped herself tighter inside her cardigan. With featherweight steps, she crept to the front window. Her head angled toward the sliver of the outside world against heavy linen curtains.

A man stood outside a silver sedan. Fumes rose from his vehicle.

Her finger wrapped gently around the dusty curtain. She pried it slightly more open and pivoted tentatively.

Her stomach clenched. Her red Corolla parked in her driveway damaged upon impact.

"Hello? Is this your car out front?"

She gasped audibly as her finger dropped the curtain. She took quick steps backward, nearly knocking over the floor lamp.

She paused.

She dared not breathe.

A shadow bloomed in the frosted glass of her front door. It reared its head, twisting to reveal its profile.

"I jumped the curb. Maybe we could take care of it ourselves..."

She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. The pace of her breath picked up at breakneck speed.

"But, if you want to call the cops, then that's okay, too—"

"No!" she quipped, startling herself with her own voice. "It's fine, please—go away."

"I promise, if you just open the door, we can find a way to resolve this together," he urged, sincerity dripping from his every word.

"It's fine—no harm done, just go!" she implored, her voice trembling as panic clawed at her throat.

"Ma'am, please. My name is Helmut Zemo."

Her eyebrows furrowed. But as she opened her mouth, he spoke again.

"Forgive me for the theatrics, but I needed to get your attention. I knew Jovanni."

Her breath caught in her throat, a sudden weight pressing against her chest as her lips snapped shut in disbelief. He continued on, as if each word wasn't an incision on her ravaged heart.

"I worked with Truett, who gave me the opportunity to make Jovanni's acquaintance. He seemed a good man, with the most boisterous of laughs and eccentric neckties, as I recall."

She choked out a nervous laugh. Those hideous ties...

"He was perfect," she whispered softly, tears brimming along her lower eyelids.

"I know you're in pain, Lorea." Her breath hitched. She couldn't recall the last time her name was uttered aloud. Perhaps among the many sorrows at his funeral, the pathetic attempts at sincerity while her world imploded; she knew they placated her while secretly entrenched in relief as their lives remained blissfully unchanged. She'd harboured hate for every one of them since, not least of which the government faction responsible for putting him in harm's way.

He took a deep breath and exhaled audibly, the silhouette of his head bowing behind frosted glass. "I am too. We've been lied to, our families and lives ravaged, then cast aside in our grief. You see, we have a common enemy, and I would like to enlist your... experience... right the wrongs done to—"

"I can't bring him back! That 'wrong' can never be made right!" she barked.

He paused.

"This is true. But, what if we could even the odds?"

She rocked on her heels, the sweater she clung to threatened to suffocate her. Her hand flew to her forehead, damp and burning under her palm.

"Mrs. Soltero, if you wish to hear me out, please open the door. Otherwise, I will go."

Her eyes jolted back and forth, hastily scanning the carpet stains. Would this—could this be a chance, a real chance?

What more did she have to lose?

She bounded forward and unlatched the four deadbolts, flinging the door open.

His back turned to her, he paused upon hearing the door. He pivoted slowly, facing her with a debonair smile.

"We have much to discuss, Lorea."

"I-I'm sorry, it's just... I haven't been to the store in ages," she stammered, embarrassment coloring her cheeks as she rifled through stale crackers. "Soup, I have soup. Would you like–can I make you some soup—"

"Lorea."

She couldn't be sure when he wandered next to her. But he laid his hand gently over her trembling fingers.

"I mean you no harm. Please, don't trouble yourself." He sauntered back to her kitchen table, seated at the chair she'd hastily cleared of mail, old wrappers, and dishes.

Lorea dropped her head, continuing to face the cupboards.

"I'm sorry I... I haven't had a visitor..."

"I understand, Lorea. Please, sit." He motioned to the chair adjacent to him.

She slunk toward the chair, warily scanning her surroundings and the man across from her.

He moseyed back to the kitchen, brandishing two mugs from her upper cabinets. He filled them slowly with water, before placing them in the microwave. While the hum of the machine heated the mugs, he poked through her pantry.

"I see peppermint, chamomile, ginger, and green tea. Which would you like?" he asked gently.

Her eyes failed to find any threat in his questioning expression.

"Peppermint...please."

"Of course."

He resumed bustling, stopping only to cease the beeping of the microwave. He placed a peppermint tea bag in one mug and chamomile in the other. He crept slowly back to Lorea and gently placed her mug in front of her.

"This all must be very jarring for you, yes?"

She nodded curtly and wrapped her fingers around the mug.

"I will be honest; this is the first time I have visited anyone in a little over a year, aside from one recent visit, but I wouldn't call that a social encounter."

Lorea stared, almost through him.

She startled Zemo, and herself, as she murmured, "Your accent, where is it from?"

"Sokovia."

Her eyes sharpened into focus.

"Last year... Sokovia... did–did you—"

"Yes. Everyone." He studied the woodgrain, taking a curt sip of chamomile.

"I'm sorry."

"As am I. But we have a chance, Lorea." He set his mug down and leaned forward, clasping her hand in his. "To avenge them."

"Mr. Zemo, I—"

"Please, just Zemo."

She nodded. "Okay, well, Zemo—the circumstances of Jove's death were never really divulged, and anything I tried to find out was hushed up. So, I don't know how avenged—what is that?"

He turned away for a moment, before brandishing a strange, tattered red book with an embossed black star. She wrinkled her nose and furrowed her brows, then met his eyes with sheer confusion.

He raised the book gently. "Compliments of Mr. Vasily Karpov." He grinned wistfully as he set the book on the worn mahogany. "I know this seems rather odd, but I can explain," he cooed.

Zemo cleared his throat, shifting slightly as she jumped at the noise. "Jovanni worked alongside Dr. Truett Hudson, correct? Believed himself to be working towards a cure for cancer?"

She furrowed her brows, warily taking a sip of peppermint tea. "Yes... he lost his mother to cancer, so he'd leapt at the opportunity. What–What do you mean, believed he was curing cancer?"

"To put it bluntly, Lorea, he was lied to," Zemo grimaced.

"What are you talking about?" she fumed, nearly tipping her mug over.

"Please, Lorea, sit down." He reached for her, and she wrapped herself in the life support cardigan. Her eyes wandered furiously, unsure of when she stood and began pacing.

"May I explain?"

Her breath faltered, but she paused to give a quick nod.

"I promise, Lorea, this is not to speak ill of your husband. I could never, and would never, do such a thing. But you deserve the truth."

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and again, she slid down into the dining chair.

Zemo cleared his throat, slightly nudging her mug away from the table's edge. "The U.S. government Weapon X Program tasked Dr. Hudson, along with an elite team of scientists, to develop a viable super-soldier serum—yes, the very same one that gave us Captain America—which had nothing to do with cancer. I doubt Jovanni even knew; the secrecy was particularly restrictive. The very act of getting this information was not painless, Mrs. Soltero. May I ask, when did your husband die?"

Lorea's eyes glossed over. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip slowly, before biting down on it.

"March 28th, 2013. It was a Thursday. I remember because... we were going out for date night that Friday, to... to our favorite place on 2nd Avenue. Their special that week was his favorite— roast chicken with harissa and schmaltz." She breathed in sharply, angrily wiping a stray tear from her cheek. "Dr. Hudson invited him to stay late Thursday night. He told me Dr. Hudson was nearing a breakthrough, so of course he had to assist Truett's brilliant mind. But... But then—"

She dissolved into hiccupped tears.

"He never came home," Zemo finished.

She shook her head vigorously, covering her mouth to stifle the escaped sobs.

Zemo patted her clenched fist sorrowfully. "Lorea... I have information about what happened that night. I will tell you, if you are able to hear it right now."

Lorea sucked in her wavering breath and stared into him. She wrapped herself tightly in her sweater before she nodded hesitantly.

"Please know, this news may be as difficult to hear as it was to ascertain—so for that, I am truly sorry." He paused momentarily, retraining his focus away from her gaze. "Truett actually believed himself to be close to finalizing a stable serum that night. But... But the Winter Soldier broke into the secret facility, seeking only to kill Dr. Hudson, retrieve any serum and its research. The Soldier killed Jovanni that night along with Dr. Hudson. Lorea, he... it would seem he was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Zemo could hardly hear his final words over the howling sobs from Lorea. Her body trembled with the rigorous screams and tears flowing from her. Zemo hesitated, but then wrapped her in his arms as her teeth chattered and the weeping breaths regained some regular rhythm.

With her head pressed to his chest, she managed to choke out between sobs. "They never said he...He didn't have to... He should still be..."

Lorea's heart, long numbed by grief, sparked back to life as the truth crashed over her. An anger she thought had died with her hope surged through her veins, raw and undeniable. Without thinking, she lashed out, her fists hammering against Zemo's chest, the weight of her fury too great to hold back. He tried to pull her closer, to contain the storm she had become, but the betrayal she had buried for so long fueled her resistance, and she struck harder, her sobs turning into something fierce and unrelenting.

"No! No, no, nononono! Lied—He should still—! He wanted to help! He-Hewasgoingtocurecancer! Why, God?! He should—with me! No!"

The screeching and hyperventilating raged on, her body convulsing with each piercing cry, until slowly, the coals within her burned out. After what felt like an eternity, she collapsed into Zemo's chest, her strength spent. A pitiful final exhale escaped her lips as she sagged against him, trembling with each ragged breath. Between sharp, furious murmurs, she buried her face deeper into his chest, her words barely audible but seething with the remnants of her rage.

"Lorea, dear... I cannot understand what you're saying," he whispered softly.

She nudged her head upwards, resting only her forehead on his chest.

"You... you said the Winter Soldier... from the news... the Triskelion... he killed my Jovanni?"

"Yes, Lorea." He wrapped an arm around her and began stroking her hair, leaning close to speak in a low tone. "When S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, Black Widow released Hydra files to the public. Millions of pages. Much of it encrypted. Not easy to decipher. But I have experience. And patience. And a person can do anything if they have those."

Slowly, she pushed herself upright, her body trembling as she reclaimed her balance. Now resting on her own weight, she drew in a shaky breath, no longer relying on Zemo's support. The fire of her anger had dimmed, but the heaviness of what she'd learned still pressed on her, grounding her in a new, raw reality.

Zemo continued, forlornly watching Lorea's broken gaze. "Hydra deserves its place on the ash heap. It is my intention to use this book," he lifted the tattered book upwards, "and perhaps other bloodier methods to find what I need. I don't look forward to that. But, Lorea, I wish to offer you an opportunity for justice, peace, retribution."

She glowered straight through Zemo's stricken eyes. With complete clarity, she hissed laced with labored breaths.

"I am going to kill him. I will kill the Winter Soldier."