Project GAIA

Fault Lines

The world was burning.

Not in the way headlines described—no airstrikes, no bombs—but something deeper. The earth itself seemed to pulse beneath the surface, restless and angry.

Sam Wilson stood on the edge of a cracked ridgeline overlooking what had once been Brazilian farmland. Now it was a fault scar. Miles of ruptured soil stretched like claw marks through the hills. Heat shimmered up from the fracture.

"Third one this month," he muttered, scanning the site through his visor. "Same seismic signature as the last two."

Behind him, Yelena crouched near the fissure, sunglasses flashing in the sun. "Hydra's been dead for years," she said. "You think their zombie fan club has the budget for this kind of mess?"

Bucky adjusted the sleeve that hid the metal of his arm and crouched near the edge, staring into the crevice. Almost as if expecting something to climb out of its depths.

"Hydra never dies," he said quietly. "It only sleeps."

A gust carried the dry heat across the ridge.

Sam looked up, the hum of Redwing slicing the air overhead. "If they're back, they're not digging for weapons. Not that I can tell. It looks more like they're trying to bury something."

Bucky didn't answer. What are these bastards up to now?

They flew out that night for Wakanda, the hum of the jet their only conversation. Everyone was lost in thought. The idea of Hydra resurfacing now, after all this time, was concerning. They had to figure out their endgame and uncover it quickly.

Hours later, holographic maps lit the mission table, veins of red tracing across continents—each glow an epicenter of destruction. Shuri stood at the display, her tone grave, "The destruction is getting worse, and it continues to move into more populated areas. And every anomaly lines up with an old Hydra facility. Sites the Americans missed dismantling during the war. But why Brazil?"

"There are two big German colonies in Brazil. One was formed in the early 1800s, and then another after WWII in the 1950s. It wouldn't be the first time Hydra has infiltrated another country in the guise of a refugee," Bucky stated.

Yelena whistled softly as she followed the path of destruction, then added, "But why dismantle their old bases if they are trying to resurrect Hydra?"

Bucky's gaze fixed on the pattern. Five points form a spiral that started in the center and coiled outward toward the coast of South America. He felt a cold certainty crawl up his spine. "Whatever they were looking for, they've already found it," he said. "Now, they're following coordinates."

Sam folded his arms. "With the last few events hitting in Brazil, the pattern of movement, and the increase in body count of targeted areas... the next predicted event hits here." His finger tapped the glowing point. "Rio de Janeiro. Carnival's in two days. If we're right, that'll be ground zero."

"Wonderful," Yelena said. "Apocalypse in sequins."

Bucky didn't smile.

He just nodded once. "Then we go."
*
Carnival was a living organism—music, sweat, and color breathing through every street. With the population nearly doubling in size since Tony brought everyone back from before The Blip, it was a nightmare.

The night pulsed with drums so deep they felt like heartbeats.

Bucky moved through the crowd, jacket zipped despite the heat, in an attempt to hide the silver beneath his sleeve. He wiped the sweat from his brow as his eyes scanned faces that gleamed with glitter and paint.